


I hope our story has a happier ending

by Everydaynerd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Dark Past, F/M, Healing, Secret Relationship, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Trauma, dark kiddos, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-01-05 13:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 216,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21209450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everydaynerd/pseuds/Everydaynerd
Summary: Hermione's life becomes infinitely better when she begins speaking to her soulmate on her 10th birthday, when ink on one begins appearing on the other.he's her best friend from there on out--gets her though the dark days without fail.two years later, she and Draco forge an unexpected friendship no one else can know about, each with no idea the other is the soul mate they believe to be muggle.(secret relationship + angst ensue)





	1. prologue

The marks from her soulmate begin appearing at midnight on her tenth birthday, a pattern of swirls along her forearm and a nonsense sentence jotted on her palm that burst into place instantaneously, already drawn—her soulmate is older than her, then.

_Hi,_ she writes nervously, heart leaping in her chest when ink blooms beneath her message moments later.

_Hi! Happy birthday—it is your birthday, right? You haven’t just been ignoring me since June?_

She bites her lip, a small smile forming at their rambling; her soulmate seems as nervous for this as she is.

_Yes, it’s my birthday. Your tenth was in June?_

_The 5th! I’m glad we can finally talk._

_Me too. _She hesitates, then scrawls, _I never thought I would like the whole soulmates thing, really. I don’t like the idea of fate being in charge—it feels too much like a _Nicholas Sparks _movie, or one of my mother’s soap operas. But—I could use a friend, if you’d like._

His response takes much longer this time—that is, she’s pretty certain he’s a he, as she’s fairly certain she doesn’t like girls.

Before replying, he scribbles circles over her latest message until it’s illegible. She feels her stomach drop—she’s done something wrong, he’s decided he doesn’t want her, and who could blame him? The kids at school have long since made it clear that she’s too bossy, too much of a know it all, too busy with her head stuck in a book, too bucktoothed and ill-dressed to be one of them; can she really blame her soul mate for thinking the same?

His elegant script begins to flow before she can spiral any further, though, and his words gently bring her down from the ledge. _Sorry, had to get out of the house. I’d like that very much, though. I could use a friend, too._

A pause, then he continues. _My parents, though…it’s hard to explain, but my father is very judgemental, and not—not the kindest person. He can’t know about you, or you won’t be safe, and—that can’t happen. I won’t let it._

_But I don’t think we should tell each other our real names, just in case. If even I don’t know, he can’t find out._

Hermione’s eyebrows draw together with worry—her soulmate’s father doesn’t sound like a very good dad, and even though she doesn’t know him yet, she’s _sure_ he deserves better—sure anyone would deserve better than a dad they have to be scared of, hide parts of themselves from.

(a part of her is glad, though, because she hadn’t thought through what having a soul mate meant, truly—there would be things for her to hide, too.)

_That’s okay. We’ll just be like Romeo and Juliet. _She blushes, because she’d _just _said she only ever wanted to be friends and here she is comparing them to the most famous love story there is.

_Sorry, who’s that?_

Her eyes practically pop out of her head with surprise. _You don’t know—sorry, that’s rude, everyone likes different things. It’s—it’s a play, Shakespeare, a famous forbidden love story. Their families are enemies, but they care about each other, so they find a way to be together anyway._

For a moment she worries she’s scared him off with talk of forbidden love, but then—

_Sounds like us, all right. Those can be our code names—you’ll be Juliet, and I’ll be your Romeo._

She giggles, turning red at the implication but thrilled nonetheless. _I like it. Though I hope our story has a happier ending. They both die tragically in the play._

(She doesn’t know it, but far away, her soul mate holds back a sob—his Juliet has no idea of the threats beginning to stir, the danger being bonded to him puts her in.)

(their story has every reason to end just the same.)

/

They talk a bit every day after that, each time for a bit longer, gradually more serious conversations, until their friendship just—snowballs.

It turns out Romeo is a big reader, too, most of his books have just been in French—or Italian, which he learned because it’s his long-time friend’s native language.

He reads Romeo and Juliet, so he can be in on the joke, and then works his way through countless classics at Hermione’s behest, and they spend hours every day discussing the Bronte’s and Dickens and Zora Neale Hurston.

Talking to Romeo is the highlight of every day—she’s never had someone who was able to keep up with her before, someone who thinks the same way she does and understands what she means when her mind’s rapid pace would confuse anyone else. Even their arguments make her feel like she’s on fire, because he challenges her in a way no one ever has—and when they _do_ have the same ideas, they build on each other’s thoughts at light speed like they share one psyche, and learn so much more than either every would’ve on their own.

On the bad days…the thought of him gets her through it. He can always tell when something is wrong, but they’d both made it clear early on that each of them had things they couldn’t tell the other, so he doesn’t ask or badger her to tell him what’s bothering her—instead, he decorates their skin—art, gentle and bright paintings or soulful sketches, inspiring quotes by brilliant minds, whatever he thinks will help her that day. She tries to do the same on his dark days—quotes and song lyrics, simple hearts, distractions of new developments in books and updates on drama on her favorite sitcom. They lean on each other constantly, make the hard times bearable in a way she doesn’t know how she could’ve gone on without.

It’s the best. _He’s _the best.

(She hated the idea of soul mates, but Romeo…Romeo makes her understand why people can’t help but end up with theirs. Makes it worth the cliché.)

She never writes on her hands anymore, because Romeo has made it clear that his father can never know about her, can never know about the pages-worth of messages that consume their waking hours; they strictly relegate their conversation to above the elbow, the hips, the thighs—hideable spots. And they have a signal, an **_x _**they put on their wrists when one of them can’t receive messages for the day, when it’s too dangerous for evidence of a soul mate to decorate their skin.

(She’s not sure it would be _dangerous_ for her on one of the bad days, per say, but Romeo is _hers_—she won’t let anything taint that, won’t let anything come near enough to his words to harm the thought of him.)

She’s grateful for him—so, so grateful, even as she wishes for a world where they don’t have to keep secrets from each other.

A year after their first contact, Professor Minerva McGonagall knocks on her door. _Magic_, she speaks of—_you’re a witch, Hermione_.

(The wall of secrets between them only grows.)


	2. no one has to know

The lights begin to dim, the way they do every night ten minutes before the library closes.

Hermione rubs at her eyes, getting to her feet with a yawn; she’s spent most of her time in the library since she got to Hogwarts—especially in the early days, when she didn’t have Harry and Ron, and the other girls in her dormitory were too cool for the bookworm.

(A sentiment which abated as soon as she was in with “the chosen one”, of course.)

Still, the last few weeks she’s reached a new level of intellectual exhaustion. Not that she can afford anything else, with the heir of Slytherin on the loose—as soon as she finishes her homework, she spends the rest of the night researching legends about the founder, about magical beasts, about the architecture of the castle itself.

She’ll do anything to protect this place—anything to make it feel like home again.

(it had been nice—feeling safe in a home that was hers, for a little while.)

If that means reading about so many horrible creatures she gives herself nightmares, so many primary documents by blood supremacists she wants to throw up and hide away, so be it.

Unfortunately, it means she hasn’t been able to speak to Romeo nearly as much—but then, he understands, because this semester at his boarding school has been particularly brutal as well, her non-dominant hand perpetually ink-stained from diligent scribbles by his left-handed self. And anyway, their friendship doesn’t always need words—they could go a minute or a year without speaking, and she knows falling back into the ease of their interaction would be as easy as breathing.

(Though Romeo is asthmatic, so it’s probably not a simile he would appreciate.)

She also hasn’t been seeing Harry and Ron as much, but Harry has detention tonight anyway, and Ron is likely either tied up in a chess tournament or already asleep.

Making her way to the back shelf, she begins returning the books she’d gathered to their places—Madam Pince had long since given up on having her leave out the piles of books she went through every day as was custom to keep track of library traffic, instead keeping a chalkboard for her and one other voracious reader to update their tallies on at the end of each night.

She turns back around, eyes widening at the sight of Draco Malfoy feet away from her as he slides several tomes on ancient and noble house genealogy into place.

It’s not at all unusual to see him here—in fact, every night she can pretty much count on his presence, as well as an assortment of mad-scientist-esque Ravenclaws that varies day to day. Malfoy has many flaws, not the least of which by far are his racism and elitist sense of innate superiority, but she has no doubt he earns his rank as second in their class—and she only just surpasses him.

(She has the best motivation in the world to be on top, though—_needs_ to belong in the wizarding world so desperately, she’ll do anything to make sure no one questions her place here, to make sure no one tries to send her back.)

He doesn’t make any acidic remarks, though—even now, when no one to reprimand him is anywhere in sight, he merely gives her a cool nod and walks away without the crude and deprecating commentary that characterizes their everyday relationship.

By the time she recovers from the shock of him so near and gets her belongings together, she spies him carefully marking the right half of the tally board—of _course_ he’s the other person who reads in high enough volume to have a place of his own on the board. She should’ve known.

She waits for him to finish before silently adding her own marks on the other half of the slate.

Readjusting the bag on her shoulder, she waves to Madam Pince with a small smile on her way out, groaning at the sight of chalk on her left hand—she doesn’t know how she managed to get it all the way over there, really, but her own clumsiness knows no bounds at this point.

The path to both Slytherin and Gryffindor aligns for a while, so she walks just a few steps behind Malfoy, both studiously ignoring the other’s presence and moving at a brisk pace.

They’re just about to round a corner when she hears a scream—a familiar voice, older—followed by a terrified gasp that sounds more like a peer and a terrible thump, flesh on concrete.

Hermione doesn’t think, doesn’t put the information together despite having all of the pieces, and begins to lunge forward, despite the sound of something—something _huge_, movements dragging along the hall loudly enough to drown out everything except its own blood-curdling hiss—but Malfoy is there blocking her, tugging her to the ground with a shout of, _“eyes, Granger, cover your eyes!”_

The thing’s movements continue for several moments, and she’s too scared out of her mind to process anything, anything but the fact that _Slytherin’s monster _is there and she’s a muggle born and god she’s going to die—and it’ll kill Romeo, he’ll be completely alone in the world except for his mother, and she’s powerless and trapped and can do nothing more than love him, anyway.

Minutes pass, though, and the sounds slowly moves away—there’s a creaking, the rumbling of the ancient building as though the walls themselves are moving, and then—nothing.

It finally ends, but then footsteps approach, and then someone is yelling and she thinks she hears Harry’s names, but all she knows is _they can’t be found here_ so she tugs at Malfoy and he points to a broom closet, and they rush inside and tug the door closed hurriedly, collapsing to the floor without a word despite the commotion that now sounds far away.

They hold still for a beat—her entire body is trembling with fear and adrenaline, in a way unlike she’s felt in years; even the troll last year wasn’t this horrifying, didn’t rattle her down to her bones.

She can feel Malfoy quivering, too, his arm still wrapped around her torso from when he tackled her.

It’s this, the realization that _Malfoy’s arm is around her_ that propels her into motion; she jerks upright, and he likewise scrambles into a sitting position.

For a moment, they just sit there and stare at each other, panting and pale.

“I—you just saved my life,” she rasps, the shock in her voice evident.

Malfoy doesn’t respond, looking as shaken as she feels.

She presses a hand to her mouth regretfully. “Thank you, I mean—god, I should have started with that. I—I don’t know why you did it, but—thank you.”

Malfoy nods hesitantly. “Of course. But—you can’t tell anyone. Please.”

Hermione feels her insides turn to ice—_of course_. For a moment, she’d thought maybe he cared, thought he meant to save her, but that’s not what this is—he instinctively grabbed her too, and no one can know he saved a mudblood. This is the boy who’s been making it clear she’s not welcome among his kind since day one—she knows better than to think he actually cares.

“God forbid anyone think you might be a mudblood sympathizer, right?” The words come out bitter and biting, in a way she’s never really heard herself before—she doesn’t know why wounds from Draco Malfoy always hurt _so much_, but they do, everything he does hits her like a truck and she _hates _it, hates the person it makes her worry she could turn into.

“No, that’s not—Merlin, Hermione, I swear it’s not like that.”

His use of her first name makes her eyebrows shoot to her hairline—keeps her from interrupting sarcastically. Instead, she motions for him to continue, confused by the softness of his voice, the vulnerability on his face.

He scans the area around them carefully, back and forth several times, before opening his mouth. “I don’t—I don’t believe that stuff. I have to maintain appearances because Crabbe and Goyle are about as blood supremacist as it gets, and they report back to my father and everyone else in—that circle—if anything I do indicates I’m not one-hundred percent the expected pureblood, Death Eater Malfoy heir. I—everything I’ve ever said to you, everything I do when they can see…”

He shakes his head. “It’s not me. Hasn’t been me for—a long time. And I wish—more than anything—that I could stop. But as long as my mother is there…”

He trails off, but his meaning is clear: his father will take out any disobedience on the one he has access to.

(It would be enough to ensure anyone’s compliance.)

“I—I don’t want to sound callous, but—I have literally no reason to believe you, Malfoy. How the hell do I know you’re not just making this shit up to keep me quiet about tonight? Every memory I have of you involves you degrading muggle-borns.”

Malfoy lets out a bitter laugh. “I can’t even—it’s hilarious, honestly, that it works so well. My bloody _soul mate_ is a muggle, and she’s the best thing in my whole life—how could I even begin to think muggles are less than when she’s better than me in every conceivable way?”

Hermione gasps at the admission, and can see the moment Malfoy realizes exactly what he’s said: all the blood drains from his face, and he slumps forward, expression desperate.

“Please, Granger, you can’t—_no one _knows. No one. They would kill her—if he caught wind, my father would crucio her in front of me for fun, and then kill her for daring to be bonded to me. I don’t care what you think about me—hell, tell them about tonight if you must—but _please_. I am—I am _begging _you. I will do anything.”

The plea raises his voice two octaves, and at the pure dread on his face, he seems so young—just thirteen, like her.

(And she understands the kind of fear he feels, the kind of traumas and nightmares that make a person know to be this afraid. She _knows_—this is not a drill.)

“I won’t tell,” she promises softly. “I swear it. My—my soul mate is muggle, too. I know how hard it is, keeping it from them.”

Malfoy hesitates, but nods, letting out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you. So much. Really, I can never repay you.”

“You did kind of save my life tonight,” she teases, though the adrenaline is fading, and the words come out tired and nervous and shaky. “I’d say we’re even—if anything, I probably owe you a few _more_ secrets kept.”

He attempts a smile. “Sounds good to me.” Biting his lip, he continues cautiously. “I…I still have to act the same. In public. But when no one is around…we could be friends, if you want. We have a lot in common, and it would be nice to have someone who understands. No one has to know.”

He says the last sentence earnestly, looking as though he hopes it will sway her—as though he’s worried _she_ might fear her reputation if others found out they were friends.

Which, upon actually thinking about it, she can’t fault him for—Harry and Ron could never understand, would never approve.

(good thing she’s never needed their approval to decide what to do—how to live her life.)

She has a deal with herself—lots of things are out of her control.

(there are things she doesn’t get to decide whether or not to do.)

But the things she can control, the things within her grasp? She doesn’t do _anything _she does not want to—ever. If she is genuinely against it, no one can sway her or guilt her into it—Harry and Ron have tried, whether it’s Quidditch or copying assignments or having a bottle of Firewhiskey on a school night, and have failed every single night.

Along with that, she _does _do everything in her control she wants to. Unequivocally. It’s why she’s never let teasing deter her nerdiness, never let side comments stop her from eating her favorite pumpkin treats, never let Dumbledore himself convince her not to continue being just as engaged in Snape’s class.

She does what she wants.

(And she wants to be friends with Malfoy.)

So she replies, “Okay,” and they share a smile, and a look that means something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: hello hello and welcome!!! Made the decision to write this fic bc apparently I handle stress by writing soulmate AUs—what can you do, you know?
> 
> Logistics: this will likely be a v slowly updated fic, bc I am a senior in college and this year is kicking my ass, but I will finish this story—be patient with me and I promise not to let you down. if you're following my feysand fic as well, not to worry, I will still be finishing that one! I simply write as the muse cooperates
> 
> Let me know what you think so far!! much love.


	3. breathe me in

It’s weeks before they manage to meet again—security became hyper-vigilant after Justin and Nearly-Headless Nick were petrified, and beyond that, they’re both almost paranoid at being found out, and so unless they can absolutely guarantee no one will see them, they veto the prospect of a rendezvous.

One day, though, a school owl drops a note before her that reads _midnight, seventh floor_—she knows it’s him instantly, because who else would send her such a cryptic message? Who else would be willing to sneak out so late when there’s a strict curfew and the entire Hogwarts faculty is on edge?

She crumples up the note instantly before rejoining the conversation; Harry gives her a curious look but lets it go, and Ron is so busy with his conjecture about Malfoy being the heir of Slytherin he probably didn’t even notice the correspondence to begin with.

Beside her, Ginny quietly gets up from the table, and no one else is paying attention but Hermione watched the younger girl sip at her pumpkin juice without ever truly eating—something is _wrong_ with the youngest Weasley, she just knows it. Her frame is whittling away, there are bags under her eyes—Hermione knows Ron and many of the professors are attributing the changes to the stress of a first year in a new place, especially during a year when an alleged monster is roaming the halls, but—

(there’s a darkness in her eyes Hermione recognizes. this is more than a freshman being overwhelmed by school.)

That night, she asks Harry for the invisibility cloak—cites an ingredient that _must _be added to the Polyjuice potion at precisely midnight or the entire thing will be useless, and he’s immediately shoving the cloth into her hands, because_heaven forbid _he can’t unknowingly interrogate his classmate.

The entire plan is preposterous, she knows, and worse yet it’s a complete waste, being that she’s absolutely certain Malfoy is not the heir of Slytherin, but she would be hard pressed to explain the knowledge to the boys without revealing the friendship they’d forged, and so here she is, spending part of every day brewing a potion that would get her expelled, her wand broken—send her back, and _she can’t be sent back, _but as much as she can’t bear the thought of leaving here, her actions must seem in character.

(so she’s cooking an illegal drug in a school bathroom—_genius, Hermione, this plan is genius_.)

She knows Romeo is worried about her, knows he’s not okay, either, but there’s just _so much _happening right now they barely have time to check in on each other. Besides, they have the rest of their lives to talk—and if she’s killed by Slytherin’s monster, that will be much less time than if she can stop it ahead of time.

She rounds the corner nervously, rapidly swiveling the compact mirror in hand around every crevice of the hallway before entering it.

Malfoy is nowhere in sight—but then, she’s invisible, so it follows that he might be as well.

“Malfoy?” the whisper is quiet and nervous, but there’s distortion in the periphery of her vision, and then Draco shimmers into being as the disillusionment charm on him fades.

Tugging off the cloak, she watches his eyes widen at the sight—impressed, maybe—and it’s only then she sees the form sidled up next to him.

Malfoy follows her gaze, then gives a small smile. “This is Dobby. He’s my family’s house elf—I don’t know how much you know about them, but essentially he’s bound to serve us in return for access to our magic and all of his needs being met. It’s a rather archaic system—my mother and I have been working on trying to find a way to free him without my father finding out for years, but it’s proven almost impossible. He’s been asking around to try to find a place for us to meet in secret, and he came across something amazing. He’s the one I had send you the note this morning—he’s kind enough to help me out, and loves any excuse to practice his penmanship”

Hermione smiles hesitantly, mind going about a million miles an hour. “It’s nice to meet you, Dobby.”

“I is honored, Mis,” Dobby insists with a dramatic bow that makes Malfoy snort. “Dobby knows Miss Hermione is kindest of friends.”

Her brows pull together at that, memory tugging at the back of her mind. “You’re—I knew your name sounded familiar, Dobby, were you the one who—” she cuts off abruptly, worrying she’ll get him in trouble with Draco for disobedience.

“I is helping Mister Harry, yes. He does not see helping, no, but I _is_—Master Draco said it was most important.”

Malfoy flushes. “I—I overheard bits of conversation, and it seemed like Harry would be in danger. In hindsight, it seems like being half-blooded will keep him safe—you’re the one I should’ve tried to convince to stay home.”

Her heart thumps in her chest even as her blood turns to ice—that even before their alliance, Malfoy was trying to protect her best friend; that _had _he gotten his way, she would be back home in her own personal hell right now.

“Well, it would’ve been useless then, too—nothing you said would’ve convinced me to stay.” She tries to keep her tone light, but the brutal honesty seeps through. “And—and Dobby, Harry said you had to punish yourself for warning him! I’m so sorry—and ever so grateful you were willing to do that to protect him.”

“Tis nothing, Miss! I is commanded by Master Draco to perform a numbing charm before any punishment for Master Lucius—I feels no pain at all!’

Malfoy is truly turning red now, tilts his head to the other side of the hallway. “Can we get on with it before someone finds us, please?” He looks to Dobby, expression kind. “Dobby, could you please show us how to find the room you heard about?”

Dobby nods fervently. “Like this! And you has to think about what you wants the whole time” He marches assuredly before the bare corridor, back and forth three times, and just when Hermione is ready to gently suggest they look for something else, a door appears.

“Bloody hell,” Malfoy mutters disbelievingly. “You’re amazing, Dobby. Thank you.”

The house-elf beams at him. “Anytime, Master Draco! I is going now—Mistress says ‘you had better write me this week, young man, or a Howler will be arriving that calls out every single one of your pet names—don’t test me, little dragon’.” Dobby carefully recites the message, inflecting every word precisely, and Hermione tries not to laugh at the sheepish look on the blonde’s face.

“I will, I will. Tell her not to worry so much.”

Dobby disapparates without another word, and the two young people quietly enter the doorway.

They find themselves in a sitting room, of sorts: there’s a fire, couches and beanbags strewn around the room, and a gorgeous bookshelf along the back wall.

They’re both tempted to investigate the miniature library, but—first things first. Sitting down across from each other, they both hesitate in trepidation, until Hermione blurts out, “How did you know it was a basilisk?”

He blinks at her in surprise. “I—I’d read up on every creature that could petrify, made a chart to categorize them so I could cross them off as I learned more. I—I suspected, when some of the roosters were attacked. As soon as I heard the hissing, that night…it was the only one that fit.”

Her thought process exactly—but he had processed the information so much _faster_ in real time.

“Incredible,” she breathes. “Well, Malfoy, your reflexes were impressive.”

He makes a face. “I would really prefer if you called me Draco—while we’re alone, at least. I hate the name Malfoy. And—anything to do with my father, really. As soon as all of this is over, I will be taking on the Black name, as will my mother.” Hermione nods, and he continues. “And it’s thanks to you, really. I’d been doing most of my research on family lines, trying to figure out who the heir could be; I just picked up a book after you once to skim through enough to make a list when I saw you doing it, because it seemed like a brilliant idea.”

She grimaces at this. “Speaking of the heir. The boys—Harry and Ron, that is—they’re convinced it’s you.”

Draco snorts. “Of course they are. Honestly, Potter is practically very skilled, but his logic is positively nonexistent.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she agrees, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, to try to ask you about it and figure out how to prove they’re theory, we’ve been—I’ve been—brewing Polyjuice potion. It’ll be ready next week, and they intend to pose as Crabbe and Goyle and interrogate you about it. I just—I thought you should know.”

She bites her lip, nervous the admission will collapse their already fragile friendship, but instead, Draco’s jaw drops.

“You brewed _Polyjuice? _Merlin, Hermione, that’s—that’s a difficult brew for _NEWT_s, and you’re only thirteen! I—how have they not tried to advance you, or something?”

(They have, actually—she refused, felt her heart rate skyrocket at the prospect of receiving a diploma while still a child, having to return to her parents’ house until adulthood, told them in no uncertain terms would she be accepting any less than her owed seven years as a Hogwarts student.)

She doesn’t tell him that, though—she’d confided it in Romeo, once, in the dead of night, the day before having to go back home for the summer, but no one else could know—no one else could get too close. Instead, she shrugs her shoulders.

Draco shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Well—good on you, anyway, that’s bloody amazing. You’re not coming with them down into the snake nest?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “No, I—it didn’t seem right. Especially not now that we’re friends—I won’t invade your privacy, your home, like that. I’ve got a plan to mess up the dose of potion that’s meant for me.”

“Insane. You’re—positively unbelievable.”

(He doesn’t say it like that’s a bad thing though, and—it feels different, than her friendship with Harry and Ron.)

/

They designate a weekly meeting time in the Room of Requirement; some weeks, one of them is unable to get away without company, or without being caught by professors roaming the halls, but they remain unable to communicate often, or without using Dobby as a middleman.

She has to hold back laughter at the horror on the boys’ faces when her Polyjuice “accidentally” transforms her into Millicent Bulstrode’s cat instead of the witch herself—because honestly, they think she could make one of the most complex potions there is, and yet be taken down by such an obvious mistake? It’s almost insulting.

It’s one of the things she likes most about Draco’s newfound presence in her life, though; the others appreciate that she’s smart, of course, and they respect that she’s hard working and more knowledgeable than the rest of them.

But they don’t _really_ know—don’t really understand _exactly_ how out of this world her abilities are, how improbable it really is that she should be able to accomplish the things she does.

Draco, though—he’s from one of the most traditional pureblood families out there, and _he_ thinks she’s smart beyond belief, understands the actual weight of the things she’s done.

It’s incredibly validating, in a way she’s never had before outside of Romeo. And as much as she loves her soul mate, having someone _here _who gets her is nice, too.

They laugh about it, after the Polyjuice escapade—he relays everything the boys had asked him (_“I hope for their sake that neither of them attempts to go into any profession that requires deception, because their acting was atrocious—honestly, I’ve never seen anything more out of character in my life”_), and they laugh at how easily everyone accepted that the “brightest witch of her age” could mistakenly turn herself into a cat.

One day, when she’s settling into an RoR armchair, several muggle books spill out of her bag, and Draco’s face absolutely lights up; apparently, he’s gotten very into muggle literature because of his muggle soul mate, and this opens up an entire new avenue of their friendship, as they trade opinions and recommendations, and Draco shows her the _Advanced Ancient Arithmancy _cover he uses a sticking charm to attach to any muggle novel he’s reading, to deter anyone else bothering to notice the contents.

Christmas break is—hard, but her mother wants her home so desperately she can’t refuse, and so she’s back to sparingly writing to Romeo in the way she always does when not at Hogwarts.

She returns to school feeling off, as she usually does after breaks; Draco is similarly turned inward and unlike himself, and they don’t acknowledge how jumpy they both are after going home, but.

(_But_.)

They’ve made very little headway on determining the identity of the heir, even with their combined efforts; they’ve determined that the line makes it to the Gaunt family—there’s a son that was imprisoned and murdered several decades prior, and a daughter that died seventy years ago. _Useless_.

Nonetheless, they’re—making it. The year has passed without any muggle-born deaths, no one has discovered this friendship that could cost their lives, their grades are better than they’ve ever been, they both are able to discuss their soul mates and muggle topics and they’re carrying around mirrors and being so careful—

(it almost comes as a surprise when March rolls around and she’s petrified.)

/

/

Draco thinks he might be losing his mind.

Hermione is petrified, and there’s nothing he can do; no matter how much research he does, how many hints he tries to leave around or have Dobby craft for faculty, no one is _fixing _it, and it’s been weeks and his friend is effectively in a _coma_.

He tries to help Blaise, too—something bad is going on with his best friend’s soul mate, and neither of them know how to aid her; Blaise is worried she’s nearing a psychotic break, is trying to convince her to meet up with him somehow so he can be there for her, but any time he suggests outside help she cuts him off, giving him the cold shoulder for days at a time.

Worse than anything else, something is _very _wrong with Juliet.

It had taken him a bit to notice—this year had been beyond hectic for them both, and so it wasn’t unusual for one or both of them to go a few days without speaking; he didn’t know to worry until it was too late, and something was very very not okay.

She’s not responding at all—not even staining her skin with ink accidentally, or slipping while putting on nail polish that lights up in droplets on his fingers.

They’ve never discussed whatever it is that makes her hate being away from her boarding school so much, just as they’ve never discussed why Hogwarts is truly his safe haven, but if something has happened, if he could’ve done something, or if it’s too late and he’ll never know—

He can’t handle it. Can’t even let himself think of it.

So he focuses on Hermione instead, works toward helping her because that’s something he _can _control, offers to lend Madam Sprout a hand with the mandrake cultivation because he’s a stellar Potions student and understands the importance of careful ingredient growth and harvest, slides a note into Hermione’s clenched fist for anyone on the light side who’ll bother to look to find that denotes what Slytherin’s monster is and how it’s making its way through the castle—he’s doing anything and everything in his power.

Draco wants to slap himself when the message claims the youngest Weasley has been taken—if Hermione were here, she would be rightly _livid _with him for allowing something to happen to the girl she practically considers a sister. Ginny is only _eleven_—she deserves more than being consumed for a racist feud his father’s kind stand behind to justify their domination of society, their excesses of wealth and power that have only grown over time without any real cause.

He doesn’t have long to process, though, before Blaise charges up to him, drags him into an empty classroom, and casts every security spell they know on the door before holding up a hand that appears as though dripping dark, viscous red.

_“I think my soul mate is the heir of Slytherin_,” are the words that come out of his mouth, his normally dark skin chalky.

(It’s a moment that makes Draco want to fucking _scream_, because they’ve tried so hard to distance themselves from that, to separate their ideology and who they are from the lives they’re forced to live by their family, and now fucking destiny is trying to force them into it? Is making the girl Blaise loves be at the heart of this?)

(It’s not right, it’s not _fair_.)

Everything is happening all at once, and Dobby is whispering that Harry Potter killed the beast, that Lucius is here, that he’s being summoned and Draco is reminding him to get Harry to antagonize Lucius into freeing him before _crack _and Draco is left alone to hope and wonder and fear, and the mandrakes _should _be ready today so the potion _should _be complete tomorrow but if it’s not, if it doesn’t work, if he and Pomona had somehow brewed it wrong—

Things calm down.

He disillusions himself and sits by Hermione’s side as the potion is administered, and when her skin no longer feels like granite but she’s yet to regain consciousness Dobby appears.

(_Ginny _was the heir all along—except not really, she was being possessed, but Potter ended that, so they’re okay where that’s concerned, except for the fact that he has no idea how Blaise is going to react to his soul mate being _Ginny Weasley_, of all people, but the that’s really the least of their problems at the moment.)

Once everyone is gone, he removes the disillusionment spell, because Hermione deserves to know someone is with her when she wakes, deserves to know her friend cares enough to sit by her side—and Madam Pomfrey seeing him is not a threat, because of patient confidentiality secrecy vows that are magically binding.

He’s scribbling a message to Blaise on ripped parchment, because while a bomb like this should be dropped in person he also knows his friend, and he would rather know everything is okay and be shell-shocked than remain in a state of panic for longer than necessary.

_“Oh my god I forgot how to read,”_ are the first words out of Hermione’s mouth, and Draco jumps and turns his head to face her, except she’s just staring at his scribbles filling the page.

He gives a half-hearted laugh, because _“no, Hermione, you’re fine, it’s just Italian—because it’s to Blaise,” _and when she makes an odd face at that he explains, _“I’m somewhat fluent in Greek, Latin, French, and Romanian, too—it’s just more practical, and it’s easier to keep secrets if they’re not decipherable.”_

For whatever reason, this soothes the tension in her shoulders, and she nods before demanding her update her on everything she missed.

His heart is much lighter, and then he feels himself practically come back to life two days later when Juliet’s writing begins to flicker onto his forearm. _I’m so sorry I’ve been AWOL—long story but I haven’t been able to receive or send messages. It wasn’t—it wasn’t good, for a while, but I promise I’m okay now._

And he wants more detail, wants to demand she tell him exactly what she went through and what he can do and where she is—but that's not how their friendship works, and he knows it.

(If he doesn’t respect their mutual silence and boundaries, she won’t either, and he can’t tell her those things.)

The year ends, and while he dreads the summer as always, a large part of him is relieved. _They made it_.

(He honestly thought they might not, for a while. Not this time.)

And his birthday comes—he’s fourteen now, and Juliet decorates his skin like never before with excitement and praise and encouragement and all the love of a best friend.

He braces himself for home and all that entails, but he knows he can get through it. Knows September is worth looking forward to.

/

Summer arrives, and Hermione can feel every part of her coiling like always. This year was—something else. She can only hope the next will be less overwhelming, and while that seems unlikely, she feels so surrounded by love now that she thinks it’ll be okay regardless—Romeo, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Draco, and a kind Ravenclaw named Luna make her life feel so full, and Dobby has promised to come to her aid anytime she has need of something over summer term.

(She knows she won’t take him up on it, outside of procuring an owl so she can correspond with everyone, but it’s nice to know he cares enough to offer.)

Ginny promises to have her over at some point—says she’ll convince Ron it’s his idea so that their mum will say yes, but then when he and Harry get distracted by chess they’ll talk and adventure and perhaps even see a film.

(Ginny also proposes Quidditch—lots and lots of Quidditch—but Hermione just laughs and advises her to turn to the twins and Harry for that one, offers to read and spectate beside the pitch.)

And Draco—he was there for her more than anyone when she was petrified. It’s something she won’t forget.

When he sneers at her in the hallways, now, she has to stop herself from bursting into laughter—she can see the playfulness in his eyes, even as his lip curls and Ron’s entire body tenses.

(It’s nice, this secret that is _theirs_.)

For a moment, there, when he’d said he spoke Italian—and to Blaise, who she knows to be his best friend— some part of her had speculated that he could be—

(There’s no way. It’s strange they have so much in common, but she’s done a lot of thinking and it’s simply a coincidence; a nice one, really, since they’re two of the people closest to her.)

She begins putting up her walls as soon as they board the train; needs the entire ride to sleep and brace herself, needs those walls to stay up impenetrably.

When they begin pulling into the platform, she sighs, begins scrubbing away the last message she’d written to Romeo. Draws the familiar **_x _**on her wrist (their wrists) just in case—finds his own **_x_** on the opposite side.

(Whatever happens, she’ll have him. She always has him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much to do someone lmk why I'm writing this instead


	4. still walking on eggshells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prisoner of Azkaban here we gooooooooo

Summer passes—so, so slowly.

Holistically, Hermione has been very productive—she’s working a few days a week as a receptionist at her parents’ dental practice, she has plenty of time to read and research and really flush out her ideas about the world. Communication with Romeo is always more abbreviated when they’re not away from home, but they’ve been finding the time to talk, to discuss politics and philosophy.

(He likes Descartes and Plato, because of course her soul mate has to be that pretentious, abstract kind of an academic. She loves him to pieces anyway.)

He’s told his best friend more about her now, too—the guy in question had known for years that he had a soul mate his father wouldn’t approve of, but he’d had some life-changing soul mate issues of his own last term, so lately Romeo’s taken to sharing her habits and commentary. She knows everyone else knowing about their connection is impossible, but—it makes her feel warm, to know someone so close to Romeo knows about her—to know she means enough to him to be worth sharing.

(_He’s taking your side _again_, Jules—this is absolutely ridiculous, the two of you are never allowed to meet or I’ll never win another argument as long as I live.)_

And of course, she spends a good deal of her time corresponding with her friends from Hogwarts—actual postal service letters to Harry (who sounds entirely unhappy but relatively stable—she’ll never forgive Dumbledore for leaving him in a _known_ abusive household, leader of the light side and Order of Merlin or not. It’s unacceptable—positively _disgusts _her.)

It seems as though his aunt’s family is out of the house much more this summer than they used to be, though, so he’s much less on edge, using a lot of the free time on his hands to explore parks nearby, to visit the animal shelter regularly (_they’re so wonderful, Mia, when you and I get a flat together after graduation—we will be roommates, won’t we?—we’re definitely getting a cat. preferably multiple. maybe some fish too?)_

(Of course they’ll be roommates—Ron will live with his family until he’s settled, because he loves them and because he can and it’s comfortable, and he’s the kind of person who likes comfort; she and Harry, on the other hand, will be clambering for a home of their own at the first sign of an opportunity.)

The Hogwarts owl she’s fostering for the summer takes care of ferrying messages to Ginny, who reports that she’s fairly certain Fred has a secret boyfriend (as his pranks have caused little actual damage, lately) and that Percy has burnt himself out to a degree that has her worried (the mental exhaustion is so deep that he confided a large part of him wants to drop out—as hard as he’s worked, it’s too _much_, there’s so much pressure to maintain it all, now, and he doesn’t know how to stay afloat—doesn’t know if it's worth it to bother).

More than that, though, she talks about how hard it is to come back from Voldemort’s possession—so much of the last year is a blur, and sometimes she does something before wondering if it’s a habit of hers or one she picked up from the piece of the dark wizard that imprinted itself on her soul. It’s all she can think about, some days—wondering if she might be dark on some biological level, now.

Her parents, Molly and Arthur, don’t want to talk about it—they think it’ll be easiest to move on if they just pretend it never happened.

(_But I **can’t**, Hermione—this thing is eating me alive. I _need_ to talk about it, need someone to tell me it was real, or I think I might lose my mind. Why are they so happy to pretend everything is fine when I’m not, I’m not okay—I’m so, so far from okay.)_

Hermione does her best to console her friend—to be there for her, despite how impossible it is to even begin to understand what she’s going through.

(She considers confiding her own secrets, but—so many years of clutching them to her chest mean the terror at the prospect of someone else knowing is too great.)

And of course there’s Draco—the most difficult one to talk to, though his friendship is every bit worth the lengths they have to go to.

He’s been spending his free time trying to learn about muggle politics, finding parallels and writing documents on intersections and ways the two worlds have influenced one another’s statesmanship; whenever he can safely and securely do so, anyway. She’d thought about it in passing before, but—the work is positively _fascinating_. Draco has such an interesting way of looking at things, and it’s so different from her own; on some occasions, she makes passing comments about her feedback and it sends him down an entirely different rabbit hole.

(He doesn’t say much about his family, or about what he does at the myriad of formal functions he’s forced to attend, but she can presume as much. His mother is doing well, at least.)

Her upcoming fourteenth birthday also means puberty has now really and truly kicked into gear full-force; she’d really rather it didn’t, although the reminder that she’s getting closer to adulthood is reassuring.

(But the implications…things are just harder, is all.)

She can handle it, though—she’s done it before, she can make it through now.

/

When Ginny sends a missive that they’ll be staying in Diagon Alley as soon as they return from Egypt, shortly followed by an invitation to join them from Ron, Hermione nearly cries tears of joy.

Harry won’t be joining them for a while yet, which means it all feels incomplete, but she’ll be back with the friends she considers family, and the thought is enough to remind her how much light and good there is in the world—in her own life, as far away as it might seem some days.

She doesn’t know the last time she hugged someone of her own volition, but the second Ginny’s vibrant hair is in sight she can’t help but catapult herself at the younger girl, holding back tears at how easy it is to feel so _safe,_ and so loved, in the embrace.

Ginny’s chopped off more than half of her hair’s length, and the contrast is jarring—but in a good way.

(It makes her seem older—much better matches the age in her eyes, these days.)

(“_It was a little impulsive, but—I needed a change. Something to make this year feel…different. To make _me_ different, than when it was a part of me.”_)

Hermione cringes at the awkward almost-hug-handshake she exchanges with Ron, but it’s endearing, really, how much he tries despite feeling so out of his element.

He invites her along every time he steps out for ice cream, or a visit to the joke shop, or even Quidditch scrimmages; while she mostly declines, it means something that he never stops asking her—her friend is a very flawed being, but he’s incredibly loyal and inclusive to everyone in his life, in a way she’s never really taken the time to appreciate.

Being in Diagon Alley, she’s much less restricted in speaking to Romeo; while he’s still at home, it seems his father has been on business trips more often than not as of late, and being able to communicate freely outside of the school term is something they’ve never had before—it’s exciting, and soothing, and she breathes easier each time she reminds herself she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder every time she scribbles across her skin, right now.

On the other hand, being in constant proximity to the Weasleys means her conversations with Draco have to be that much more covert—not an easy feat, with Dobby involved, as the house-elf is practically a walking neon sign calling attention to himself. But she manages.

One day when she, Ginny, and Fred have made their way to the bookshop (for books on astronomy, workout regimens, and elaborate snares & knots respectively), they bump into Oliver Wood, who plays it cool but has a nervous tic that makes Hermione fairly certain she knows the identity of Fred’s secret boyfriend.

And she gets a cat—half kneazle, in all actuality, but she’s never been one to care where that’s concerned—and while she’d never been _against_ pets, per say, she hadn’t realized how much more secure such a small being could make her feel.

It shouldn’t be comical that Crookshanks has it out for Scabbers—and by extension, Ron—but sometimes it feels as though she has so few reasons to laugh, she can’t help herself from being amused at how protective the feline is.

(Even if he is just a cat, it’s nice to know there’s someone out there that would fight without discrimination on her behalf.)

/

By the time Harry arrives, she can feel the pre-term tensions and heightened emotions setting in; on top of everything else, there’s a _serial killer _on the loose—she didn’t know much about wizard prison, previously, but as soon as she heard about the break out she’d begun researching everything she could get her hands on to do with Azkaban.

She’s baffled to find there’s no actual human personnel involved in the security whatsoever, which seems idiotic to begin with, but the more she reads into it the more surprised she is this hasn’t happened before—relying on misery to keep people immobile? What about those who are used to listless depression, or who are high-functioning when their will to go on crumbles?

And honestly, how does someone without a wand break out of _magic jail_? What a monumental fuck up.

Harry looks thin, although that might be somewhat due to the growth spurt it seems he’s had; still, the ruckus with his awful aunt and his miniscule time as a runaway seem to have rattled him, so she’s careful to be a little more gentle, give him a little more room to breathe. Whenever he seems too overwhelmed she’s taken to bringing Crookshanks to him—tugging his fingers through the cat’s fur seems to ground him, keep him from spiraling too much.

Despite her best efforts, though, his life only gets more stressful—of _course_ the escaped mass murderer is after him, the boy is just an absolute danger magnet. She has to hold back bitter laughter of resignation when he tells her and Ron.

And there’s a new professor, because of the DADA “curse”—he saves them from rogue dementors (and who the hell let dementors on a train full of children, anyway? What would’ve happened if an adult trained in defense hadn’t by chance been sitting in their train car?)

She watches Lupin out of the corner of her eye, though Harry and Ron carry on the conversation unbothered; the professor is obviously proficient, which is a relief after the disaster that was Lockhart, but term hasn’t even started and he already looks exhausted.

She’s—she’s not sure he’s quite okay.

(It’s a familiar look.)

She catches him staring almost nostalgically at the window sill of the compartment—upon further inspection, she sees a ragged _SB + RL _etched into the wood, a smaller _JP + LE _more elegantly and painstakingly carved below it.

By the delicate way he strokes the graffiti, Professor R.J. Lupin is RL himself—but the look on his face makes her wonder what happened to SB.

(What could’ve happened to make him look so torn between longing and sorrow?)

/

She’s just going through the motions the rest of the day; she’s thrilled to be back at school, of course, anticipating the many elective courses she’s registered for this year, of course, but more than anything she’s anxious to talk to Draco—to find out how he is, all the things she _knows_ he left out of letters to keep her from worrying. Seeing him across the hall, trapped in his own skin, when they haven’t spoken in so long—it makes her want to throw something.

She’d forgotten how hard it was, pretending to hate him.

(He’s one of her best friends, now.)

He teases Harry about the dementor rumors that have already begun to circulate, and it’s almost funny, how much it riles up Ron when it’s so clear Draco’s heart isn’t in it.

Restraining a groan when McGonagall asks her to meet her after the feast, she nods along patiently as her head of house carefully delineates the rules of time-turner usage—she knows the Deputy Headmistress means well, but she’d made it a point to learn everything possible about current time travel politics and history as soon as it had become clear it might be in her imminent future, so the lecture feels tediously repetitive.

As soon as she’s out of sight on her way out of McGonagall’s office, she doubles back and performs a Disillusionment charm, carefully making her way up to the Room of Requirement and nearly breaking her hand in her urgency to get the door open.

“Finally!” Draco declares, and while his tone maintains the lazily bored façade, the way his face lights up when she walks in the room makes it clear her friend missed her just as much as she did him.

They both hesitate, a foot apart, before Draco mutters _“fuck it”_ and pulls her in for a hug.

She stiffens with surprise initially, but relaxes into his hold after a beat. “It’s nice to see you too.” They both pull back and stare at each other for a minute before she groans. “I can’t believe you’re taller than me now—this is just disrespectful, honestly.”

“Yes, well, Father is very concerned with the maintenance of my physique—can’t have the future head of House Malfoy be in anything but top shape.” He pulls a face, like even saying his eventual title disgusts him. “Really, I think it’s probably something much worse—need to be very agile to get away with the monstrosities he does without getting caught. Speaking of—dementors on the _Hogwarts Express_, can you believe it?”

“It has to be illegal in at least ten different ways,” she agrees hotly. “Endangering minors like that—if it hadn’t been for Professor Lupin, I can’t imagine what would’ve happened to Harry!”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Professor Lupin—as in Remus Lupin? He’s who Dumbledore chose for this year?”

Hermione nods curiously. “Yes, why? Do you know him?”

“No, but—” Draco’s eyes are wide, alight in the way she’s learned to mean his mind is moving about a million miles an hour, and he hesitates briefly before dropping the veritable bomb of information. “Before Sirius Black went to Azkaban, he and Lupin were best friends.”

“Oh my god,” Hermione says faintly. “You’re sure?”

He nods grimly. “Yes—and there’s more. You should sit down. I didn’t want to put it all in a letter in case it got intercepted, but—there’s a lot most people don’t seem to know, or remember, about Sirius Black.”

She dutifully drops onto the couch they’ve established as the most comfortable, pulling the familiar knitted quilt up over her lap.

This—them, on their couch, the rapid exchange of information—it feels so _right_.

(It feels like _home_—so much so it scares her.)

“My mother—she’s a Black, as you know, and was much more involved in the family affairs before her marriage to my father. Sirius is her cousin—and he was the first Black in history to be in Gryffindor.”

Hermione’s jaw drops, but Draco shakes his head before she can interrupt. “You’ll want to wait till the end, because there’s so much more—it's insanity, ‘Mione, honestly.”

Something in her chest thumps at his use of the nickname, and she gestures for him to continue.

“Apparently, Sirius was a black sheep—no pun intended—since the day he was born. Anti-pureblood supremacy, constantly getting beatings and crucio’ed by his parents since he was a kid because he was so definitively and outwardly against everything the family stood for.”

Her eyes widen with horror. “His own parents used an Unforgiveable on him?” Her insides clenches at the thought—she’d never thought she’d feel empathy for a mass murderer, but—that kind of torture, from childhood? By your own _parents_?

Draco’s expression grows unreadable. “It’s not an uncommon form of punishment among the sacred twenty-eight. Usually they wait until teenage years, at least, but—Walburga was always a bit of a monster, from what I understand. My mother said she suspects that’s part of why he was able to break out of Azkaban—the dementors rely on the sadness overpowering and debilitating prisoners, but in all honesty Sirius lived in conditions just as bad his entire childhood, so with the right skill set and opportunity…it’s really not surprising that he managed to get out despite it.”

He shakes his head before jumping back into the story. “So anyway, not only is he in Gryffindor, but he’s part of this group of four best friends in Gryffindor that was extremely tight knit, the greatest pranksters until the Weasley twins. Brilliant, too—they all got more than their fair share of O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, and Black went on to become an auror, if you can believe it.

“This group of friends, though, consists of him, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew—yes, one of the people he murdered—and _James Potter_. From their first year till the Potters were killed—Black moved in with James’s parents when his own disowned him and blasted him off the family tree, the two of them and Lupin got a flat together after graduating from Hogwarts, he was best man at the Potters’ wedding—the man is Harry’s _godfather_. ”

“But—that’s impossible. That doesn’t make any _sense_,” Hermione whispers, her mind refusing to compute everything he’s said. “Sirius is after Harry—Mr. Weasley warned him before we came back to school; the whole ministry knows, they gave us a protective detail to escort us to the platform and everything. Why would he try to kill his own godson?”

Draco gesticulates manically. “Exactly! And more than that—why would he join Voldemort in the first place? It goes against everything else anyone ever knew about him; it’s just illogical, so out of character. Something doesn’t add up.”

“We have to talk to Lupin, or—there must be some way we can find out the details. Someone out there knows _something_,” she speculates, earning a look of disapproval from Draco.

“Great idea, ‘Mione, I can see how well that’ll go over—_‘hi Professor Lupin, it’s so nice to meet you, I’m Hermione and this is my friend, the spawn of one of the most well-known Death Eaters. We heard you used to do Christmas with the notorious escaped conflict—care to tell us why he killed one of your best friends and is on his way to off the child of another?’_”

“If Harry can best _Slytherin’s literal monster_ I’m pretty sure we can figure out a way to get information from a middle-aged professor,” she snaps. “Honestly, Draco, you’re acting like you’ve never done any sleuthing before.”

“Well, for those of us not in Dumbledore’s favor the rules actually stick. We don’t all get to enter the Third-Floor Corridor and the Forbidden Forest against explicit instruction and miraculously _not _be expelled. And win a House Cup for our disobedience.” His tone is light-hearted, but it’s clear that this is something he’s frustrated by, and rightly so—the thought make’s Hermione feel almost nauseous.

“I—I’d never thought about it, really. I’m sorry.”

Because he’s right—all she, Harry, and Ron have ever done is flaunt the rules as they please, and because they’ve gotten more lucky than not, Dumbledore has showered them with praise for accomplishments they shouldn’t have been able to perform in the first place.

(He’s supposed to be _everyone’s_ Headmaster—and yet he’s never bothered to trouble himself with the Slytherin students’ well-being.)

“You’re fourteen, of course you hadn’t. No one would expect you to. But Dumbledore’s an adult—an experienced one, at that. He should know better.”

The words come out annoyed, but—Hermione can tell it’s sadness more than anger that Draco’s feeling. And who could blame him—the person entrusted with his education and his safety, the position of authority that should be looking out for him, isn’t on his team at all.

(Has assumed the worst about him—about an entire quarter of the children in the student body.)

“But that’s enough of the dramatics. What did you think of _Candide_?”

She shoves him, amused at the absolute _most _theatrical person she knows casually waving off dramatics, but begins articulating all of her thoughts about the piece nonetheless.

(This, the easy switch between serious conversation and banter and literary analysis—_she’s home_.)

/

It’s a few weeks into term, and she’s (unsurprisingly) holed up in the library.

Draco’s already berated her for not using the time-turner to catch up on sleep and homework as well as attending classes themselves (yes, McGonagall told her not to tell anyone, but it took Draco approximately two minutes to figure out there was no other way it was physically possible for her to be enrolled in all the classes she is, and, well, it’s not like he’d tell anyone anyway.)

But when she’d received the time-turner it had been made explicitly clear that she was not to use the device outside of the precise hours of her courses as it was intended, and no matter how exhausted she is, she won’t betray the trust given to her.

She _is_ exhausted, though—they’re so far from any upcoming break, and she already feels behind in everything, not the least of which is her sleep and health. Harry and Ginny have forged an alliance that seems to be the start of an actual friendship (rather than a young girl’s crush on her best friend’s brother and his own inability to realize it) rooted in taking turns sneaking food into the library to bring to wherever Hermione has set up shop, knowing otherwise she’ll become so wrapped up in her work she’ll either forget to eat or not be willing to sacrifice the time necessary for a trip to the Great Hall.

(And she’s doing her best to make it seem like she’s doing alright, but—there are cracks in her act.)

Romeo is constantly harping on her for not taking care of herself—it’s a testament to how well he knows her that he’s not even around to see the sleep-deprived puffiness of her eyes and haphazard state of her hair, and yet _knows _exactly how messy her mental health already is.

She’d worried her frequent time travel would impact him, or their bond, in some way, especially after her petrification spell—her own frozen state had effectively frozen the connection between them, and she’d been terrified her chronological jumps would likewise cause rewinding and reappearance of the messages between them.

But the research had seemed conclusive in assuring that soulmates were not harmed or affected, and Romeo had said nothing to indicate anything wonky on his end, not that he would know to attribute it to time-travel.

She’s working on Arithmancy at the moment, sipping at a juice Harry left for her a few minutes ago—the boy is about as unobservant as a brick usually, but he’d managed to figure out she was much more likely to actually consumer calories if they could be ingested while working, and had since prioritized bringing foods that could be eaten one-handed and substantive drinks (complete with straws she had an inkling he’d urged Dobby to track down).

“Is it okay if I join you?”

She internally groans at the question, and sharp words of disapproval are halfway to her tongue when she realizes the intruder in question is Luna, and her expression rapidly grows delighted.

“Oh, of course, please do! I’d been meaning to see you soon. How are you, Luna?”

The blonde smiles, setting her belongings down across the table. “I’m well. Professor Dumbledore allowed me to enroll in an interdepartmental independent study with arithmancy and care of magical creatures, to circumvent the policy that says you can’t take either until you’re a third year, so that has been absolutely riveting.”

“How exciting! Is it nice, being on your own, or does it get lonely?”

“I love it—I have my plenty of time to talk to people in my other courses, so it’s nice to be able to work at my own pace. Not to mention not getting so distracted by the strings.”

Hermione tilts her head at her quizzically. “The strings?”

“Between soulmates,” Luna says expectantly, as though this is obvious. When the confused expression remains on Hermione’s face she clarifies further. “I can see them—I have Clear Sight, it’s passed down through my mother’s line—what drew my father to her, I’m sure. It’s why I can see wrackspurts without visual aid. I can see the connections between soul mates—like strings, different colors depending on the quality of the relationship and the physical distance between the two at any given moment.”

“And you can see everyone’s? How far do they extend?”

“As far as the eye can see, if necessary. Whatever distance is needed to reach the soul mate in question.”

Hermione shakes her head in disbelief. “I had no idea that kind of ability existed. My string must be so dim—my soul mate is muggle, so I can’t imagine how far away he is.”

Luna hums, a distant look and soft smile on her face. “It’s interesting alright. I’d wondered if it would be any different for my own string, but it seems like everything works the same.”

“God, that, must be crazy, knowing who he is right from the start.”

“Yes. I mean, we were a bit unconventional and exchanged names early on, so I would know him anyway, but—it’s intriguing, being able to watch our bond’s manifestation change in person. It’ll be fun to tell him about one day.”

“He doesn’t know you can see it?”

The younger girl smiles knowingly. “He doesn’t know I’m at Hogwarts. We haven’t bumped into each other—and I don’t think he’s ready yet, anyway.”

“I can’t believe you’re able to keep yourself from approaching him,” Hermione admits. “I think if I knew mine was here, I wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

Luna makes that face again—like she knows something important, and it makes everything right with the world. “From what I’ve seen, fate has a way of drawing soul mates together, no matter how much you do or don’t try to make it happen.”

She looks down to her textbook and becomes humming as she crafts a chart of some sort.

(_“Cryptic much?”_ Hermione mutters under her breath good naturedly.)

/

A quarter of the way through the year, she’s in the Room of Requirement, curled up on the couch amidst a plethora of blankets after painstakingly carving out the time for the briefest of naps.

Crookshanks is sprawled out across the length of her side, purring contentedly every now and then—she’s been bringing him with her whenever she’s here, so that the poor kitten can avoid the fire of Ron’s hatred on principle.

The more sleep deprived she is, the more anxious and on edge she gets—anything and everything is liable to trigger her, her nerves a live wire at any given moment.

(Which makes it even harder to fall asleep, and staying asleep without nightmares nearly impossible.)

When the door opens after she’s been dozing for an hour, Crookshanks jumps off of her and scampers to the door, and she scowls as the movement wakes her. “Little traitor. I feed you, you sleep in my bed, and you love him more than me?”

“Aw, Crooks can’t help that he has great taste,” Draco teases as he enters the room fully, the kneazle in question already nestled in his arms. “Also, don’t freak out.”

“Why would I—”

Blaise Zabini walks through the doorway behind him, and she proceeds to freak out.

She’s terrified at another person knowing their secret and having leverage over them; on a base level, she’s even more terrified at the fact that she’s now alone with two guys, no one knows where they are, and as much as she trusts Draco…

(You can’t trust anyone, at the end of the day.)

“What the hell, Draco, what were you thinking! If he lets slip you could be killed—or your soul mate! Why on earth would you—”

“Ginny Weasley is my soul mate,” Blaise interrupts casually, looking pleased by the way the revelation instantaneously quiets her. “So Draco has pretty good reason to believe I’m equally invested in keeping our secrets just that.”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth repeatedly, struggling to string words together. “Have you—are you—does she not know it’s you?”

Blaise grimaces, throwing himself onto one of the mammoth beanbags at the center of the room. “No. I figured it out during—last year, when she was…taken hostage, so to speak. After that whole ordeal…well, I figure the last thing she needs right now is a Slytherin soul mate. And she’s a Weasley—everyone knows they’re strongly aligned with the light. If she knew who I was, she would assume I stand for everything to do with the Death Eaters—she wouldn’t give me the time of day. It’s—as long as I keep it from her, I get to be in her life as her soul mate, at least.”

His face is sincere, and it’s so noble of him, she just—“_Ugh_. Fine, damn it, that’s actually very wonderful of you. Welcome to the secret soul mates club. Spill our secrets and I’ll hex the living daylights out of you—better yet, I’ll leave it to Ginny, she does a mean bat-bogey.”

“Damn straight she does,” Blaise agrees with a proud smirk. “To be hexed by her would be an honor.”

Hermione ignores him, her face contorting into a scowl as she turns to Draco with a huff. “_You_, on the other hand—don’t think you’re off the hook for telling him without telling me first. That’s not how this works.”

(Not how their friendship works, not the way they treat each other, however good his intentions were.)

“I know. And I’m sorry, really. I just—Blaise has known about my soul mate since I started speaking to her, and it felt wrong that we weren’t able to be there for him when we so easily could be. Especially because you’re her best friend—you needed to know, too.”

She raises an eyebrow at his self-justification, but can’t maintain the glare on face when he sidles closer to her on the couch, Crookshanks the only thing between them.

He begins stroking her hair, the way that’s recently become a habit of his, and she has to resist the urge to sigh with contentment at the soothing motion.

(When she catches herself staring at his lips moments later, she knows she’s in trouble.)


	5. if you love me don't let go

Since she’s realized she has feelings for Draco, things have been—well, she avoids being alone with him, mostly.

She’d been a bit worried at first that he would take it personally, or that he would confront her and she would have to force out a lie that would choke her to speak, but it seems he’s attributing her more frequent absences to the insanity of her schedule (which has only gotten even more unbearable as term has gone on).

Blaise is around fairly regularly now, though, so it’s easier to play off most days; his friendship is an unexpected joy—he’s very bold and audacious, very nearly fitting the profile she had once assumed of Draco, minus the blood supremacy. And he’s positively _infatuated _with Ginny—it’s the only time of day any soft side shows through, when he begs Hermione to recount anything and everything in Ginny’s life that hasn’t been penned across his skin.

In seeing Draco less, she’s been relying on Romeo more—he hasn’t prodded to find out why she’s suddenly so present in his life, but then, he seems equally grateful for her more regular correspondence.

They’ve been talking about their friends much more lately, namelessly of course, neither of them having much spare time for keeping up with their usual voracious literature habits; but it’s nice, hearing about the people most important to him—and having him know about those close to her.

She feels conflicted, whenever she tells him about Draco; as though she’s betraying Romeo by describing the bloke her heart is growing fond of in lieu of him—

(but it’s not really in lieu of him, it’s in _addition _to him, which is almost worse.)

All in all, she’s getting her bearings as best she can, taking on the chaos of the term relatively well.

(Naturally, it doesn't last.)

/

She’d been worried when Hagrid was appointed Care of Magical Creatures professor—she loves the man more than life, but he’s not exactly the most responsible adult, or the best judge of age appropriate content. He’s thus far illegally procured a three-headed monster dog, dealt with Voldemort himself for an unregistered dragon egg, raised monstrous spiders into an animal empire—and those are the things she _knows _about. She doesn’t even want to think about what’s in the Forbidden Forest that takes up so much of his time

But his first few lessons were more theoretical, safety tenets to be keeping in mind throughout the term (which she’s fairly certain Dumbledore made mandatory, but it’s not like she’s complaining).

So she lets her guard down—lets herself relax and stop bracing for the worst every day as she, Harry, and Ron make their way down to the cottage.

(She should know better.)

It’s their first practical lesson, and it’s hippogriffs of _course_, because Hagrid’s incapable of doing anything halfway.

She makes eye contact with Draco, grateful for his presence even as they both remain expressionless, because she can see her own terror reflected in his eyes—would it _kill _Hagrid to do something sensible like flobberworms, rather than unleashing a potentially deadly creature around unexperienced 13 year olds? It’s genuinely irresponsible! She’d like to think there’s no way this has been run past Dumbledore, but in all honesty she wouldn’t put it past the maniac to allow something so foolhardy on his campus.

She’s already bracing herself for the rant Draco’s going to go on later this evening about how reckless Dumbledore’s administration continues to be—dreads it precisely because she knows he’s right, because even as she’ll argue on Hagrid’s behalf they’ll both know her heart’s not in it.

Naturally, Harry’s the first to engage with the hippogriff, who Hagrid has introduced as Buckbeak.

She watches Draco roll his eyes before plastering on his patented Malfoy smirk—the cold one that means whatever he’s doing is for his necessary reputation.

It all happens so quickly: Draco approaches Buckbeak casually; gains his respect easily, because magical creatures are too intelligent to be fooled by facades of darkness. Sneers and says something appropriately dickish to stay in character—Hermione watches his eyes widen when he realizes what’s come out of his mouth, when he turns to the creature in realization as a talon swipes out.

Watches him flinch before the claw even strikes—flinch instinctively, a look of resignation on his face, so unthinkingly submitting to the attack he doesn’t move out of the way as his skin rips open.

(That kind of resignation, the intuitive flinch at sudden movement—_she knows what it means_.)

And he’s already said using the cruciatus is common in sacred twenty-eight families—how had she not figured it all out sooner?

Then no one is _moving_, no one is helping him, because despite claiming to be Gryffindors her housemates are useless in a crisis—and why wouldn’t they be? Most of them have never actually gone through anything awful before, and Harry’s just plain clueless as to how to help when helping doesn’t mean doing something idiotic and brash; they’re all frozen.

“Hagrid, he needs to go to the hospital wing!” she screeches.

Draco sends her a glare that looks like his disdain for muggleborns but in actuality she knows to be his anger about her potentially blowing their cover.

_Too bad, _she thinks; it’s a little hard for her to care about the reprimand when he’s bleeding out.

Finally, Hagrid lifts him, so much more pale now than usual, and she starts breathing again.

The rest of the class begins milling about, making their way back to the castle, but she cites research and heads to the lake alone—she needs to process, needs time to let herself react to Draco’s attack before she makes her way to the infirmary.

This—it’s a wake-up call to how much she truly cares about him, one that terrifies her.

(She can’t lose him. Ever.)

/

“And here I always expected the Weasleys would be the ones to get eaten by the Giant Squid.”

“Draco!” she exclaims, jumping to her feet and practically attacking him in a hug. “I was going to come check on you as soon as the others left. You’re alright?”

He snorts, but his smile is gentle. “Yes, Mia. She fixed me up in about thirty seconds flat—honestly, it took longer to drink the blood-replenishing potion than to actually heal the wound.”

“Thank god. I was—so worried. I thought about summoning Dobby to check on you, I was losing my mind so much. If anything happened to you—”

“It won’t. Breathe, Hermione, seriously.”

Hermione nods, does exactly that for a moment and feels her heart rate beginning to slow.

He’s quiet, now, and it’s this that reminds her what she wanted to talk to him about—_he flinched_.

“Draco, do you—your dad, does he—”

She doesn’t say the words—knows he doesn’t want to hear them, anyway.

“Yes,” he says tersely. “But it’s nothing new. And nothing I can’t handle.”

“There’s plenty you _can_ handle that you shouldn’t have to,” she replies softly. “Does anyone else know?”

“No. And I don’t want them to. It wouldn’t make any difference, anyway, my father is Sacred twenty-eight and works in the ministry. He would just be furious that I tried. And it’s only three more summers till I’m of age and can try to get my mother out of there.”

And she gets it, she does—gets it more than he knows. She of all people can understand his decision not to report the abuse his father is doling out, that to do so would do more harm than good.

But it’s different, when it’s a friend who’s hurting, when you’re helpless to watch them suffer.

(Every comment he’s ever made about his father, about the tenuous line he has to walk, whirls through her mind with resounding clarity.)

“Draco—”

She turns to face him more directly, only she’s closer to him than she thought, and then they’re inches apart.

She flushes, but his eyes are trained on her lips and she freezes, staring back at him—_up_ at him, because he’s grown like a weed as of late.

Then he’s leaning forward, kissing her, and she can’t process anything else, because she’s so overwhelmed by the reality that _Draco Malfoy is kissing her_. Just—his lips on hers, arms around the small of her back, the whole thing. _Kissing her_.

It ends relatively quickly, and then they’re both coming back down to earth, because if they’d been seen—

“Oh, god, our soulmates,” she whispers, and Draco’s eyes widen, and even though she’s fairly certain she might love him, she knows she loves Romeo too.

(She runs away.)

/

/

Hermione dwells on it in silence for two days—avoids the room of requirement, avoids talking to Romeo, just—avoids anything and everything. She pours herself into her studies, writing essays more wholeheartedly than she has in months, because at least this one thing is in her control.

At one point, she’s so desperate for distraction she goes out to the Quidditch pitch to watch Harry practice, letting herself be sucked into the rehearsals Oliver Wood keeps making the team do.

Harry remains focused even as the practice wears on him; meanwhile Angelina and Katie call Oliver out when he’s being obsessive, George goes off on random tangents, Alicia tugs flashcards out of a cargo pocket between plays, and Fred flirts with the three girls incessantly.

It’s refreshing, letting herself get so lost in something so irrelevant to her life—it gives her the same kind of escapism she finds when she reads fiction, getting so wrapped up in something so separate from her current problems.

By the time the practice ends, the sun is setting, and all the players are drenched in sweat as they make their way to the showers—except Fred and George aren’t making their way to the showers at all, but towards where she’s perched on the bleachers.

George pats her head in a familial way before waving and following the rest, but Fred falls onto the seat beside her gracefully, his usual Cheshire grin absent in favor of a more genuine smile.

“Hello?” she greets curiously.

“How are you doing, Hermione?” Fred asks.

“I’m…I’m okay, thank you. How have you been?”

He ignores the question completely. “You would lie to me?” he presses a hand to his chest in faux-outrage. “I thought we were closer than that. Now tell me, why are you avoiding Malfoy?”

Her entire body jerks at the words. “I—I’m sorry?”

He squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. “We—George and I—we’ve known you two are friends for a while, now. But you haven’t gone this long without meeting up with him since you started hanging out—and you look miserable, if I’m being completely honest. Did something happen?”

“I—how did you—and you never said anything?”

“We have our ways. And we figured you had your reasons. Never known you to hang out with a bad sort—you have the best judgement of anyone we know, mostly, so we didn’t see any reason to question it.”

“I can’t believe this,” she mumbles, completely miffed. “We’ve been so careful, and so worried about the Slytherins or Harry and Ron figuring it out, and you two just—have known all along, and none of us the wiser.”

“One of the benefits of no one taking you seriously—you can get away with a lot when you’re not seen as a threat.”

Hermione turns to him with a questioning look. “Okay, which—I’ve been wondering for a while. Why do you act like a womanizer so constantly when your boyfriend’s right there all hackles-raised? We all know you’d never act on it.”

He doesn’t look at all bothered by her commenting on his relationship, grinning and leaning back comfortably. “Thought you might’ve picked up on that—and it’s soul mate, not boyfriend, thank you very much. Anyway, it’s—complicated. He doesn’t want to go public yet, not so much because he’s worried about coming out, but—he wants to play Quidditch professionally, and as much as the league likes to pretend it’s progressive…well, it’s very clear that it’s much harder to get drafted if you’re openly gay. Our plan is to announce our marriage once he’s on a team definitively enough they won’t immediately find a reason to trade him.”

“Your _marriage_?”

“Go big or go home, right?” he shrugs.

“So—you’ve agreed to keep your relationship a secret, but you flirt with Angelina and Katie to—what, keep up your cover?”

“Partially. But also because I really hate being a secret, and—I’m not always the most mature about handling it, as you might have guessed.”

“And you don’t mind that I know?”

“Not at all. You’re family—and I already know you can keep a secret. Speaking of which,” he narrows his eyes at her. “Stop avoiding the question: why are you avoiding Malfoy, and why are you so angsty about it.”

“Draco,” she corrects without thinking. “It’s—he prefers Draco.”

“Draco, then—what, did you two break up?”

She blushes, hastening to correct him. “We’re not—it’s not like that. We’re just friends, not—”

The laugh that Fred releases is knowing. “And that’s the _problem, _I understand now—you _want_ to be more than friends.”

“Yes—no—I don’t know,” Hermione admits. “It’s already hard to be friends in secret, and it would be that much more difficult to be—more than friends. I hate keeping things from Harry and Ginny and that would only make it worse. And—I feel like I’m betraying my soulmate, by having feelings for Draco? We’ve never discussed plans to eventually end up together, but….we’re very close, and I think I’d always assumed we would.”

“That sounds like the part that’s worrying you the most. If you were so worried about secrets you wouldn’t have done all that running around forbidden places after dark your first year—yes I know about that too, don’t give me that look—and you know you can tell Harry and Gin eventually. They’re your best friends, they’ll trust that you’re a good judge of character. And if they don’t…well, as much as I love them, if they don’t trust you to be a good judge of character they’re not really your best friends, you know?”

She nods mutely, and he continues. “But as for your soul mate…I think that’s a conversation the two of you just need to have. Plenty of people have agreements that they’ll see other people until they can actually make it work between them—that’s what Bill and his soul mate do.”

“Really?”

“Yeah—she lives in France, and she’s still in school, so they’ve both agreed they’ll date around until she graduates and they can figure out where they want to settle. She and Bill use muggle email a lot, since being a curse breaker means his skin gets spelled pretty frequently, and from the pictures she’s practically a model—which makes sense, because she’s part veela, but still. Mum doesn’t know about her yet, but I can already tell she’s going to hate her.”

Hermione hums without commenting, playing around with the concept in her head. _Dating other people until we can be together_. But is she even capable of dating Draco short-term like that? What if she couldn’t bear to end things when the time came?

“Hermione,” Fred says gently, and though she hasn’t said a word out loud it’s clear he can see the panic on her face. “You can’t plan for everything—especially not things so far off. Some things you have to take one day at a time.”

She nods. “No, you’re right. I—I’m gonna go talk to him, now.”

(She doesn’t clarify which ‘him’ she means—but then it doesn’t really make a difference, does it?)

/

_Can we talk about something? _She writes, and he responds in record time.

_That’s not ominous at all. But of course._

_Do you—we’ve never really discussed our plans, long term. Romantically speaking. Not that—I don’t expect anything of you that you don’t want, just—are we seeing other people in the meantime?_

It takes him a moment to respond, but somehow she knows he’s as glued to his arm as she is—knows he’s thinking about exactly that as she waits for his reply.

_Do you want to? Your timing is ironic, really—I’ve had a similar concern arise. And I—I care about her, very much. But you’re the other half of me, so—if it were to make you uncomfortable I wouldn’t want to pursue it._

She exhales, and it’s not until the breath is out of her that she realizes she’s relieved. _No, I—I think it’ll be strange for us, but I think we should. And if either of us changes our mind later on we can re-evaluate, right?_

_Of course. Whatever else, we’ll have each other._

_/_

_/_

And it’s a weight off her chest, once it’s out in the open with Romeo—she feels less like she’s betraying the closest person to her heart, and more like a regular teenage girl with feelings for a best friend.

They still haven’t talked about it; they haven’t been alone in the weeks since their kiss—which is 100% a cop out, they could definitely make the time to have that conversation if they really wanted to, could find a window or ask Blaise to give them a minute alone.

But she and Draco are both creatures of avoidance, would both rather put off things that terrify them even if they have every reason to believe confronting things would end well.

(So they don’t.)

She’s been hanging out with the twins more, when she’s not in the room of requirement—it turns out they spend extensive hours doing research for the contraptions they cook up, and they all enjoy being around others they don’t have to hide secrets from.

(Well, many secrets, anyway.)

It’s Defense Against the Dark Arts—her second lowest grade this year, after Divination, but while she’s perpetually terrified bad grades will be enough for her to be thrown out of the wizarding world, all of her close friends except for Harry being pureblood and thus Hogwarts legacies makes her more inclined to believe they’re reliable sources for Hogwarts-specific information, so they’ve mostly convinced her it’s okay if she gets less than an O once or twice.

Professor Lupin introduces the topic of boggarts, and she’s thrilled—having an actual professor who teaches _real_lessons that are actually _useful _is such a change, especially now that their standardized tests are well and truly beginning to approach.

Neville takes on the boggart, and it’s the first time in weeks that she’s laughed wholeheartedly—the sight of a professor who’s been absolutely abominable to her in elderly women’s clothing is the kind of memory she could use to conjure a patronus.

But then Lupin’s saying that they’ll all be facing the boggart one by one, and she’s flooded with fear—he can’t make them do this, can he? Surely it’s not acceptable to force students to broadcast their deepest, darkest fears.

(Surely someone whose childhood best friend is now a mass-murderer can understand that there are some things everyone needs to keep from the world.)

Except it doesn’t end—everyone is acquiescing, their fears unassuming enough that they don’t see how invasive the exercise is.

_“It’s not real, it’s just your mind” _they all reassure themselves, the way one would upon waking from a nightmare.

(It’s harder to do when your fear is your own reality—when you know it all too well.)

A part of her is glad for them, that they’re all so innocent as to be unable to imagine anything so terrible.

Though she hasn’t moved, the line has formed around her, and before she can blink it’s her turn, and she’s stepping out of the boggart’s path to avoid it registering her fear.

“Ms. Granger?” Professor Lupin asks, eyebrow raised.

“I won’t,” she says, voice shaky. “I refuse. It’s not fair of you to force us to face our deepest fear, especially in front of half our year. I—it’s not ethical, and I will not participate.”

“Do you really always have to be so self-righteous,” Ron hisses behind her. “It’s a class, not politics.”

But Professor Lupin is eyeing her carefully, and his gaze falls on Harry, just to her side. “Ah—yes, Miss Granger, I understand. I will allow those who don’t wish to participate to decline.”

Whispers fill the classroom, everyone now assuming she’s made a scene for Harry’s benefit; and of course they would, because the prospect of Voldemort’s form in their classroom is the only feasible explanation they could find for her not wanting to take on her own fear, other than the embarrassment the rest of the class has been willing to face.

(There are worse things than humiliation, she’s found.)

/

Harry finds her at the same time as the owl Draco’s sent asking her to meet in the RoR; she doesn’t know which reckoning she’s dreading more.

“Hey,” she says brightly, trying to project that the class hasn’t shaken her—that her hands aren’t still trembling at the thought of her greatest fear. That she’s not going to sleep tonight, because she can’t bear to face the nightmares she knows her mind will have in store.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” he says quietly, settling into the chair beside her.

He’s silent, for a moment; lets her pretend to be in the middle of a reading until she sighs and relents, looking up at him.

“Everyone thinks you did it for me.” He doesn’t bother pretending like that’s not what he wants to talk about.

She leans her head on his shoulder—partially for the comfort, and partially to avoid meeting his gaze. Doesn’t try to dodge where he’s going with this. “But we both know Voldemort’s never been something you feared.”

“Exactly. And—it’s definitely the kind of thing you would argue against just for the principle of the thing, because it is pretty messed up to make us let the whole class watch us face our deepest fear. But…you looked terrified, Hermione. I’ve never seen you that scared.”

She swallows thickly. “Yes, well—I had my reasons.”

“I know. And we don’t—we don’t have to talk about them, if you don’t want. I know for me, with the Dursleys, sometimes it’s easier to just—not think about it. But if you ever did want to talk about—whatever it is—if that would help, then we could.” He sounds nervous as he finishes offering.

Hermione squeezes his hand instinctively—she knows she won’t find the right words to tell him what that means to her, but she hopes he understands anyway. “Thank you, Harry. I don’t want to now, but if I ever need to…”

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence for him to understand.

(_Trauma recognizes trauma_.)

“Okay.” He leans his head on top of hers, the kind of head-head-shoulder stack they tend toward that sometimes makes her feel like she’s in a rom-com. Things are still hard, but—they have each other, and that helps.

/

/

As though the year can’t get any more stressful, Hagrid is on trial, which is pretty blatantly unfair given that a former professor set pixies on the class and attempted to alter student memory and faced no legal repercussions, but unfortunately the racism inherent in the legal system doesn’t surprise her.

In addition, Buckbeak is on trial—an actual _hippogriff_, up for execution.

The Ministry of Magic must be the laughingstock of the wizarding world for this one, and yet they continue to pursue the matter—at Lucius Malfoy’s behest.

Harry and Ron are convinced Draco is egging his father on; which, to be fair, could they really blame him if he _did_want an animal that attacked him no longer in use during lessons?

Hermione’s just so _frustrated_; they’re so incapable of seeing past their petty grudges and looking at things objectively, and sure it’s just a hippogriff now, but what happens when they’re older and people’s lives are on the line?

(She’s not naïve enough to hope they’ll avoid a war in their lifetime, anymore.)

And somehow they find fault with her for not blindly raging against Malfoy, for not defending Hagrid’s choice to allow a lethal creature to engage with unprepared teenagers, when he’s supposed to be their _teacher_.

Which—they’re yelling at _her _for not being on their side, but she’s the one helping Hagrid collect research for his case while they spend all their time planning Quidditch or playing chess.

She doesn’t have the time to argue with them; she has a study schedule carefully mapped out, has materials to craft an effective strategy for Hagrid to use in going up before the Wizengamont, has a color-coded calendar of when they’ll start preparing him for the trial.

“Mia—hey, wake up.”

She blinks at the feel of Draco’s fingers brushing a lock of hair out of her face, yawning as she sits up straighter. “Oh, did I fall asleep again? I’m sorry.”

They’re in the room of requirement; Blaise headed to bed about an hour ago, and she and Draco were both already so engrossed in legal documents that they haven’t interacted much since.

“You don’t need to apologize, Mia, but you do need to go to bed.” He meets the glare she sends his way without reacting. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no good to anyone, least of all Hagrid, if you’re sleep deprived. You have to take care for yourself to be able to take care of everyone else. Honestly—I’ll never understand Gryffindors,” he mumbles under his breath.

“But we haven’t found anything solid yet,” she protests. Her eyes are watering—she’s so worried about failing Hagrid, and so overwhelmed by school and constantly arguing with the boys, and none of it alone would be enough to break her, but altogether it feels like death by a thousand cuts. She’s drowning in plain sight.

“Hey—breathe.” Draco’s beside her, then, eyes wide and fully of worry. “You’re okay. Hagrid’s going to be okay—we’re going to figure this out, Mia. We’re not the two brightest people in the school for nothing.”

She lets out a broken laugh at that, and he continues speaking, rubbing circles on her back. “I’ve written to my mother to ask if she can pass along some volumes from the Manor library the next time father’s away; we have some rare works that might be more helpful for Hagrid’s cause. And we have a lot of French legal books that I think will be really promising—every scenario under the sun has already occurred where Veela are involved, which might give us some pretty substantive evidence in our favor.”

“I’d almost forgotten that you speak French.”

He rolls his eyes, because of course _that’s _the part of his entire monologue that she’s stuck on.

“Draco,” she says softly. “Why is this so important to you? I know—I know you care about what’s right, and I know things that matter to me are important to you because you care about me, but—it seems personal, the way you’re devoting yourself to helping with the research.”

He stiffens, but replies genuinely. “It’s—largely to spite my father, in all honesty. It makes me so _angry _that I’m the means he’s using to pursue this; he’s using _my _injury as the grounds for Hagrid’s termination and Buckbeak’s execution, claiming it’s because he cares so much about me being hurt? When he’s the one who’s been the biggest source of pain for my entire life?” _The fucking _audacity, he wants to scream. Draco clenches his fists. “I just…of course it upsets me that he’s doing this to begin with, because it’s wrong, but for him to play the caring father role after everything he’s done, after the marks he’s put on me, the things he’s made my mother witness…”

Hermione wraps her arms around his waist tightly. “He’s a bastard. We won’t let him win—this or anything else.”

He relaxes a little bit at the word _we_—the reminder that he’s not alone.

She looks up at him to find his eyes already on her—smoldering, if such a thing is possible in a fourteen year old.

“I’m really grateful for you,” he says—it’s gruff, and a little unsure, but it’s there. “I don’t know how I would get through the next few years if you weren’t in my life.”

“Me too. I—you make things a lot more bearable.”

They’re staring at each other—she keeps catching herself staring at his lips, catching his gaze drop down to her own; they’re on the edge of something big.

(_No going back_.)

“I—I talked to my soul mate.” She manages to get the words out. “We agreed not to abstain from dating until we—do whatever we decide to do.”

His eyes flash with heat, but it’s a smirk that creeps up onto his face; not the cold one he uses when he’s playing the role of the Malfoy heir, but something softer. A teasing, clever expression—one he only uses with her and Blaise.

“Any reason you feel inclined to share that with the class?”

Hermione could punch him—really, she can’t recall the last time she was so tempted to go full-muggle and deck someone. “_Draco._”

He laughs softly, then leans forward and kisses her.

It’s not like the last one; not so impulsive and heated, more leisurely. This time she can really just _enjoy_ it—she’s not so bombarded with thoughts of _what-if_s.

When she finally pulls away, she’s not quite gasping, but she’s definitely short of breath. She feels her cheeks flush, but tries to calm herself; tries to center her attention on his fingers interlacing with hers, thumb rubbing across the back of her hand.

They’re quiet for a moment, and Draco opens his mouth hesitantly. “If you—if we do this, it would be really hard. We would have to be even more careful than we already are. We could never act civil in public, we’d never be able to do the meet-each-others’-parents routine, it would be—”

“Worth it.” The words ring clear, even as her voice shakes. “You’re worth it. I—I’m in, if you are. There’s no one else I could imagine caring about like this. Being with like this.”

(Thoughts of Romeo creep up on her, but lately…lately thoughts of Draco have been equally strong.)

(Problem for another day.)

“If you’re sure, then—there’ll be an _us_, now?”

She nods, and they get lost in kissing again for a moment—after so long of not allowing herself to consider the possibility, she’s consumed.

She stops them eventually (for homework purposes), at which point Draco insists they need to go to bed (for her benefit), and after he kisses her on the forehead one last time she disillusions herself and spirits back to Gryffindor tower.

Fred and George are awake for whatever reason, tinkering with a box of knick-knacks and ingredients and a cauldron giving off a suspicious light.

Even disillusioned, they know it’s her as soon as the portrait closes behind her—_she really needs to find out how they know these things_.

“Still just friends, Hermione?” Fred grins, and she throws a harmless hex his way before bounding off to bed, thoughts of her boyfriend running rampant in her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank y'all for all your kind comments on this story!!! i'm so grateful that it can mean something to you the way it does to me. xoxo--until next time


	6. in the space between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 more PoA chapter after this kids! ~progress~
> 
> this chapter is brought to you by the tumblr post that goes:
> 
> "the planets aren't in gatorade anymore but my life still sucks???"  
"Is this from Harry Potter's divination paper"

She’d hoped to escape the ruckus of the rest of the school, but the moment Hermione enters the room of requirement, both boys are bombarding her.

“_Please _tell me the rumors are true, Hermione, I won’t even be mad if I lose the bet.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at her boyfriend at Blaise’s words. “You _bet _on me?”

“Only because I know I don’t stand a chance of losing. I bet that you _did _do it,” Draco informs her, looking smug. “Blaise didn’t think you’d have the balls to disrespect a teacher like that.”

“I don’t consider that charlatan a teacher,” she sniffs, crossing her arms and regretting nothing. “The whole subject is idiotic, and her class is a disgrace to the caliber of a Hogwarts education.”

“Did I or did I not say that was exactly what she thought? Pay up!”

Blaise continues staring at her in disbelief. “So you just talked back to Trelawney and _walked out_? Dropped the course, just like that? Serious?”

“Why do I get the feeling I just gained _more_ of your respect for being shitty to a professor?” she wonders aloud, earning a laugh from Blaise before he returns to his Transfiguration homework—the only class he bothers putting any effort into.

“I just don’t understand why you have such disdain for divination,” Draco admits, taking a seat next to her.

“How can you not? It’s the most illogical, unscientific kind of—”

“Magic,” Draco inserts dryly. “No more unrealistic than ghosts, or goblins, or turning yourself into a cat.”

“Draco!” she hisses, scowling at him. “Stop bringing that up. It was one time.”

“One time too many, but—sorry, love. It’s an honest question, though, Mia—why is divination so much more preposterous to you?”

“It just…” she struggles to put her feelings into words; struggles to express why it terrifies her deep in her chest. “With other kinds of magic, there’s some kind of _system_, or logic. The whole basis of divination is just—the right circumstances and you can _see_ something that every other person might’ve interpreted differently. It’s bogus, just—Freudian, practically!”

Blaise tunes out, but Draco leans closer to her. “I mean yes it’s very coincidental, but how is that any different than the muggle monkey-with-a-typewriter hypothesis?”

(_I can’t control it_! she wants to scream, because therein lies the issue.)

Divination is—chance, and luck, and interpretation. Nothing you can do to make it more or less successful—it’s unreliable, unstable, unsecure.

(She can’t handle one more thing outside of her control.)

Her expression makes it clear she’s not going to say more, so Draco changes the subject. “I’ve had another letter from my mother about Sirius.”

Hermione’s head jerks upward, attention rapt. “What did she say?”

“Not much. But—she managed to bring it up with my father; he was more inner circle among the Death Eaters than her. And he said that Sirius was _definitely _never a Death Eater, or in any way in league with Voldemort—whatever made him decide to betray the Potters, it wasn’t a shifted allegiance or anything like that.”

“That makes even less sense than before.” Her eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “Blackmail, do you think?”

“No pun intended,” Blaise mutters.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Maybe, although—if James was the closest person to him, who else could they be threatening to harm?”

Blaise clears his throat, rejoining the conversation once again. “Just a thought, but—Lupin _is _the only one of the four of them who things turned out alright for. I don’t know about you, but to me that doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”

Hermione nods in understanding. “You think Voldemort threatened to hurt Lupin, and that’s why Sirius gave the Potters up?”

“Maybe? Maybe not—even then, something about it is suspicious. I think we need to find a way to ask him about it.”

“Hard thing to not make suspicious. Honestly, it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke—the two worst Slytherins and the Gryffindor princess walk into a bar,” Draco says acidly as he props his feet up on the coffee table.

Hermione says, “We’ll figure something out. We just need to learn more before we act on it.”

Blaise and Draco both level her with a disbelieving look, and she crosses her arms.

“What?”

Blaise raises an eyebrow. “_You’re _the only one here who would act that brashly.”

“Gryffindors, honestly,” Draco agrees, shaking his head.

Hermione narrows her eyes at him, only half-seriously. “So much smack talk about Gryffindors, we’ll see how much kissing you get to do this week.”

He sits up straight, doing a poor imitation of a salute. “I take it back, Gryffindor is the best house. We should all be more impulsive. I can only hope to emulate Godric Gryffindor all the days of my—”

“Oh, shut up, you prat.”

/

As good as things with Draco have been going, the heightened secrecy is just one more thing for Hermione to stress about.

And there’s guilt for not talking to Romeo as much; they’d sworn seeing other people wouldn’t change their friendship, but the reality is they were both so busy already, the addition of a significant other is just one too many balls for them to juggle. She misses him—he’s the other half of her—and yet, his presence being lesser is almost _easier, _one less reminder of how ashamed she feels for not minding.

All of which to say, Hermione’s lost in thought; the days are all so busy and chaotic, nothing can catch her attention.

So it takes her bumping into Harry’s back to notice that the flow of traffic is halted—to notice the gasps and shrieks all around her, the whispers making their way to her ears a moment late.

(“_Sirius Black.” “He tried to break into Gryffindor tower.”_)

Harry’s numb expression of shock, Neville’s whispers of fear, Lavender’s worry that her moms will want to pull her out of school.

She lets Harry pull her along to safety; stands silently as Dumbledore magics the Great Hall full of sleeping bags. The way the man manages to convince himself, and the rest of the school, that it’s perfectly normal and acceptable for a serial killer to be _inside the school_, almost inside a _dormitory_, would be impressive if it weren’t so terrifying.

(If he can do this now what happens when they go to war? When there are bigger stakes, bigger losses he will be able to rationalize the same way?)

Adrenaline’s flow is palpable in her body. The entire student body is abuzz, and yet—

All she can think about is how much it _doesn’t add up_.

If it had been blackmail—Voldemort is gone, now, and who could’ve threatened Sirius from inside Azkaban? Who would _bother_?

And if he really was so close to James, if he really was the best of Gryffindors at heart—why would he come after Harry?

(None of it makes _sense_.)

Harry, for his part, is doing a great job putting on a happy face she knows to be just an act. He really can’t catch a break—_this_, the exhaustion on his face, the resignation with which he believes he’ll never be safe. _This _is why she has to find out what really happened, all those years ago.

She catches Draco’s eyes across the hall, briefly.

(They both know this is only the beginning.)

/

Blaise sidles up to Hermione after Care of Magical Creatures one day; _bold_, she thinks, putting on a scowl so that anyone looking assumes he’s just razzing her.

“There’s change in the air,” he says with a grin. “You and me—I think we might actually be able to have our happy endings, some day.”

She raises an eyebrow. They haven’t had a conversation so personal just the two of them in a while. “I’ve never seen you this optimistic. What makes you think so?”

“Theo and Cedric started dating—_finally_.

Hermione starts to smile, but the expression shifts to a frown. “Isn’t Cedric a little old for him?”

“Yeah,” Blaise acknowledges. “But they’re soul mates—not that Theo’s parents can know that. They’re a little less stringent than some, so they’ll be fine as long as they think it’s just a fling.”

“Well, I’m happy for them then. A public inter-house relationship. And I’ve heard rumors of another…”

“Which brings us back to _change in the air_.”

“You might be right.” She has to tamp down the smile that creeps up her face almost unconsciously at the thought of it.

Because sure, right now it’s two of the least darkside Slytherins, a Hufflepuff, and rebellious Gryffindor who doesn’t care much about public sentiment.

(_But._)

(It feels like the start of something bigger.)

Tides change.

/

/

Despite all the actual proven threats he could work to defend against, instead, Harry’s for whatever reason convinced dementors are going to be a big enough threat in his life to defend against, so he’s arranged for patronus charm lessons outside of class with Lupin; it takes everything in Hermione not to blurt out that they can’t trust him, not yet.

(Because really, he’s the best teacher they’ve ever had, other than McGonagall.)

He cares about their learning, cares about their ability to defend themselves—she _wants _to trust him. Wants to be able to believe in the good in adults around her.

(she can’t risk it.)

And she has no way to explain what she knows about Lupin, yet; and anyway, she doubts Lupin would do something so public even if he _were_ evil, especially with Dumbledore nearby.

(One more reason why Sirius’s recent ‘attack’ doesn’t add up. If the guy was as smart as they say, _this_doesn’t make sense.)

Before Harry heads to Lupin’s for the evening, the only night he doesn’t have Quidditch practice, he’d shown Hermione his newest toy—an old parchment from the Weasley twins she initially rolls her eyes at.

Only it’s not just a piece of parchment—it’s a _map_. That lists everyone in the castle, their movements—_all of it_.

(In the wrong hands…)

“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” he grins, showing it to her quickly. “The charms necessary to make the thing—whoever did was a complete genius.”

The gears in her mind are going a million miles an hour, as she watches the countless dots move and shift all around.

Harry scratches the back of his neck, looking perplexed. “Although, I think it has a few flaws, or something. Maybe sometimes confuses what floor someone is on?”

“What do you mean?”

“It said you were with _Zabini _earlier—of all people. And Ron…” he trails off and shakes his head.

Her heart starts pounding, because this map has so much potential to expose her—it’s lucky it’s Harry that has it, lucky he’s so naively innocent and unassuming, otherwise the jig would be up.

“Maybe it has a defect,” she lies straight through her teeth, feeling guilty even as she knows it’s necessary. “The kind of sustained magic it would take to craft something like that…not to mention we have no idea how many years ago it was made. The spell work could be wearing off, like on a knockoff invisibility cloak. Just sort of slowly flitching with time.”

“That makes sense,” Harry nods, smiling at her in thanks.

(She feels like the worst kind of person.)

As soon as he’s left for his lesson, she makes her way upstairs and storms over to the twins’ corner of the library, bordering on livid.

“A little warning would have been nice!”  
Fred blinks at her, raises an eyebrow without reacting. “Come again?”

“The _map_! The one I’m assuming is how you two figured out about my—friends.” She smooths down her hair, takes a deep breath. “You gave it to Harry, and he almost figured out—”

George shakes his head, looking worried. “No, we sent you a note the other day to give you a heads up. You didn’t get it?”  
She practically collapses in the chair between them. “No. I—do you think someone took it? Who would bother intercepting that?”

“Maybe they didn’t have to,” Fred says with a frown. “With all the time travel you’ve been doing, the owl might’ve gotten confused or given up or something. I don’t know what the research says about that kind of thing—although, at this point you’ve done more time travel than probably anyone in trials, and incredibly regularly. It’s bound to happen that something happens they hadn’t figured out, yet.”

A look of disbelief overtakes Hermione’s face. “Are there _any _of my secrets the two of you haven’t figured out?”

“To be fair, most of what we know so far is because of the map,” Fred defends. “Although we’ve never been able to figure out why it’s so wonky with Ron. But nevermind that. Anyway, you—your name was disappearing and reappearing, fading in and out, showing up more than one place at any given hour—”

“So we started paying attention to your schedule, your habits, seeing if there were certain times or events that were making the map glitch with you. And then we figured out you had more than one class during certain windows—”

“And we know Minnie well enough to know she’d willingly bend a few rules if it meant a Gryffindor could do more academically than had been done before. So—time turner.”

“Which, you should also be prepared that Harry might figure _that_ out, now that he has the map, although as much as I love the kid he’s one of the most obtuse wizards I’ve ever met.”

Hermione shakes her head, overwhelmed by the flurry of information. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“In other news, I asked out Daphne Greengrass,” George comments.

Fred slaps him on the back in congrats, and Hermione’s jaw only drops further.

“You did _what_?”

“We’ve been friendly for ages—always end up getting paired together in Gryffindor/Slytherin classes since we’re the two least polarized people in the room. Just wanted to wait long enough that I was more certain she’d say yes.

“Also, I have a hunch that she’s my soul mate, but she’s too worried about how her parents would retaliate if she confirmed it while she and Astoria are still underage.”

Hermione shakes her head. “Good for you, then. This world surprises me more every day.”

/

“What’ve I missed?” Ginny asks as she approaches. “Also, Harry, will you braid my hair?”

The older boy acquiesces without complaint.

She’d begged Hermione and Ron for one of them to learn the year before, unable to do her own hair; when Ron refused and Hermione proved incapable of working with such different hair from her own, Harry had stepped up and offered to try. Things had worked out well for everyone involved.

(Sometimes Hermione mentally refers to him as The Boy Who Braided—and astonishingly well, at that.)

“Harry’s received a Firebolt that doesn’t say who it’s from,” Hermione explains, distressed at Harry’s blasé attitude.

“I think you’re a bit paranoid, Hermione,” Ron says earnestly. “I mean, it’s strange, sure, but—there are much easier ways to jinx a person—and less suspicious ones, at that. Why go to so much trouble to hex a broom, _and _rely on Harry actually using it? And then on it successfully harming him?”

“You’re right that it doesn’t make much sense, but—that’s exactly why it’s suspicious! Harry, you can’t afford to not be careful right now. I—I don’t think Sirius Black is the one after you.”

Harry tilts his head at her, looking boggled but willing to hear her out. “What are you talking about?”

“Sirius was _best friends _with your father, Harry—an auror, and a member of the group that was fighting the Death Eaters. He wasn’t in league with Voldemort, and nothing prior to—that night—would indicate anything of the sort. I—”

“How did you find that out?” Ron asks incredulously, but before she can nervously sputter out an answer—“I don’t know why I bother asking, we all know the answer is research. Maybe I _should_ spend more time in the library.”

She forces a laugh, grateful for the out, but her eyes are pleading. “Harry, I really—I really think there’s something more at work, here. _Someone_ is lying about _something_, and—it just doesn’t seem like it makes sense for Sirius to be after you.

“But if it’s someone else, if there’s something bigger happening—we’re even more clueless as to what—and who—we’re dealing with. I just—I think we need to be extra cautious.”

“I guess.” Harry frowns, but nonetheless nods in agreement. “He was really my dad’s best friend?”

“Don’t you have a photo album, or something?” Ginny points, out.

He races upstairs without responding.

(They don’t see him for the rest of the night.)

/

So she tells McGonagall about the broom; Ron is still a little miffed, and Harry pretends to be, knowing it wouldn’t make sense for him to be unbothered.

But they’re okay—the dynamic of their friendship is relatively stable, despite everything this year has brought.

(It doesn’t last.)

Ron accosts her in the middle of dinner—she’s so tired, fried from the excess hours of class and quantity of work and secret relationship, so it takes a moment for her to understand what he’s screaming, even as the rest of Gryffindor watches his meltdown.

When she _does_ figure out what’s got him riled up, she’s even more confused that he thinks it’s a possibility.

“You think Crooks ate _Scabbers_?” she clarifies incredulously. “Ronald, I know he’s a predator, but he’s well fed and historically hasn’t enjoyed live food. I’m sorry, but Scabbers is an old rat, I think he probably just…” she trails off meaningfully.

“No, I know it was him! He’s had it out for Scabbers all year, and poor Scabbers paid the price for _your_ feral beast!”

“Oh, come off it! You idiot, if you bothered to think at _all_ maybe you would’ve considered owls whose _primary food source_ is rodents were the ones who came after the cretin. And you know what, you arse—even if he _had_, I bet everyone else is grateful for one less bit of _vermin_ in the castle!”

Ron gapes, taken aback at the bite in her words.

(She’s surprised, too—but she’s _had it_ with Ron’s holier-than-thou condescension, she’s had it with everyone treating her like she deserves this kind of treatment.)

(Because she doesn’t. Or at least, she tries to believe she doesn’t.)

Harry stands between them, looking terrified and unsure as to how to handle the situation—the way he tightens up at the yelling, Hermione knows the scene is reminding him of his childhood in the worst way.

“It’s fine, Harry,” she says softly. “Go with him. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

(Because she knows well enough that while she can be his friend even if he takes Ron’s side in a fight, the youngest Weasley brother wouldn’t do the same.)

Draco follows her to the RoR almost immediately, looking proud of her and angry at Ron all at once. “I can’t believe you snapped back at him like that.”

“Me either,” she admits breathlessly. “God, I was awful, wasn’t I?”

“No. You were standing up for yourself,” Draco reminds her, hands running along her arms soothingly. “And rightly so—he was being a complete prat and a shitty friend. Entirely out of line. I’m glad you said what you did, because I was seriously considering breaking my cover to just _deck_ him—”

“Muggle dueling now, are we?” Hermione teases. “What a gallant boyfriend you are, coming to my defense. You know, if you think _he’s _bad, you should hear the terrible things this other guy says; he’s in a rival house, bullies me because his father says so. Maybe you should deck _him_. Although he’d probably just whine ‘_my father will hear about this!’_.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Very funny, Mia.

(It’s only in this moment that she really thinks about the phrase; she’s always perceived it as a threat.)

Knowing her boyfriend, though…that’s not it at all.

(It’s a _warning_.)

/

/

In the weeks following Scabbers’s disappearance, normal…morphs. Adjusts.

Hermione still hangs out with Harry regularly, of course; they’re best friends, and no spat between her and Ron will change that.

But since she and Ron are actively avoiding each other, she’s spending more time with her other friends—leaning on Draco and Blaise, as usual, but also on the twins, and often on Ginny and Luna.

The deeper her relationship with Draco gets, though, the more guilty she feels.

(Because she _does_ love Romeo—and yet, the idea of breaking up with Draco is physically painful.)

She’s convinced they’re both idiots, too, because, it’s already so clear this thing between them has no future unless every Death Eater is wiped off the map—and if they can’t make it work now, when they’re just fourteen year olds at a boarding school, how the hell is it going to be any better when there are lives on the line? Or a marriage?

(Which is _so _far off and not nearly a concern, but—_what if_?)

/

She and Luna are in the library doing work; it’s nearing term’s end, so the usually empty desk space around them is actually in use.

Draco’s not around—his side of their check-out board has a few marks for the day, but he’d slipped a note mentioning an extended Quidditch practice a few hours ago, so a few first year Hufflepuffs reside at his usual table.

Luna keeps readjusting like she’s uncomfortable; when Hermione catches her cringing for the third time, she gives up the pretense of not noticing.

“Are you alright, Luna?”

The blonde gives a pained grimace. “Yes. I—all of the beings in the castle are just rather agitated, it’s very distracting.”  
“What do you mean?”

“Something is coming.” Her tone is faraway; the kind of _other _understanding and distance that Trelawney attempts to project, but so much more sinister. “Something big. The creatures know—all the creatures can sense it. They’re more in tune than we are with these things. They’re all trying to flee—spiders and wrackspurts, any and every nonhuman, I can sense them all. It’s—so _much_. In my head. All at once.”

Hermione’s learned to trust Luna’s intuition, but—it’s a lot to take in. Maybe the sense is exaggerating.

(She has no idea.)

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Luna smiles. “No, but thank you, Hermione. It’s something none of us can stop. All we can do is wait.”

/

She and Draco are halfway through their Defense paper, Blaise moaning and groaning without starting his own homework nearby.

Luna sits at the desk the room has recently started providing for her benefit, humming as she begins work for her hybrid course of study.

(Blaise had recently decided to bring her into the fold—without Draco and Hermione’s permission, nearly giving them a heart attack—but it turned out due to her sight and ability to go unnoticed, she already knew much of what they did.)

Hermione turns back to the text for a fact reference, is skimming the page when it hits her.

She rereads the page a second, and then a third time. Mind whirling, she lets out a strangled gasp.

“Mia?” Draco’s voice is concerned.

“The first page of the reading,” She chokes out. “read it again.”

He looks at her like she’s strange, but does just that, humming as his eyes scroll across the paper—only to do his own double take. “You don’t think—”

“All the facts match up,” she replies, looking mind blown. “And I don’t think it would’ve stopped Dumbledore—”

“And we know Snape is adamantly opposed, which is why today of all days…”

Luna raises her eyebrows and turns to Blaise. “I’m assuming this is normal, for them.”  
“Unfortunately.”

Hermione meets Draco’s eyes, biting her lip with curiosity. “Do you think it has to do with the rest? Maybe that’s what they used to blackmail Sirius, or—it _can’t _be a coincidence that he’s the one left standing.”

“He definitely wasn’t dark—the man emanates Team Dumbledore.” Draco says thoughtfully. “We should look into it more.”

“I think we could talk to him about it,” Hermione muses. “All of his friends are gone…”  
“Research for another month and then approach him about it?” Draco proposes, earning a nod in agreement.

(They don’t know, yet—that everything will devolve before then.)

“Care to let us in on the conversation?” Blaise asks.

Draco shrugs, so Hermione turns to their friends with a wary look full of trepidation.

“Professor Lupin is a werewolf.”


	7. I just want you to know who I am

They’ve been doing excess research on werewolves for weeks, now; Hermione’s fairly certain she could brew wolfsbane potion from memory alone, despite the intricacy of ingredients required.

(As if the research for Buckbeak wasn’t already taking up all her free time.)

She’s worried about Ginny—the younger girl has become more and more jumpy and closed off as the end of year has neared, her body remembering what happened this time last year.

(actions out of her control. Lost inside her own mind.)

The closer it gets, the more frazzled and unfocused Ginny becomes; Hermione can see the younger girl’s cheek bones growing sharper and sharper.

(what she eats is the only thing in her control—the one thing Tom Riddle never took from her.)

(it’s a sick satisfaction of knowing it’s _her_ choice. It’s in her control.)

But Hermione’s stretched thin—_too_ thin. Draco and Blaise keep nagging at her, and Harry doesn’t know why but is doing everything in his power to take care of her, bringing her meals wherever she’s posted up with notes and textbooks and reminding her to shower on occasion.

It’s not until Romeo calls her out on it that she realizes it’s bad, though.

_You’re so far from okay, Juliet, I can feel it. Please take care of yourself._

(he knows her best, has known her longest, and if _he’s _this worried—)

_I’ll do better, I promise. Sorry. _She has to stop herself from tacking on a _love you_ at the end—because she _does_, and she doesn’t know how it’s possible to be so wholly enamored with both Romeo and Draco; doesn’t know how she can be dating someone when there’s this guy she’s never met that will always have a hold on her heart.

And the end of year approaching means she’ll have to return home, soon; the dread builds and builds inside her, and no one else knows but it’s eating her alive.

(She’s closing herself off from them all in an attempt to brace herself for it all.)

It’s the day of Buckbeak’s execution, so Hermione and the boys head down to Hagrid’s.

It’s killing her—she and Draco tried _so hard_. Did everything in their power, destroyed their mental health and sleep schedule to try to save the hippogriff, and just—nothing. Everything in the ministry is corrupt, and it doesn’t matter how much evidence they’ve compiled to the contrary. Lucius wins.

(as always.)

The first thing to go wrong is bumping into the Slytherins on their way down—and she’s so emotionally volatile, so upset, and Draco is giving her a look.

Because for weeks now he’s been telling her she needs to hex him when they fight around their housemates; saying it makes no sense for someone as adept at charms as her to not have cursed her bully by now when she’s demonstrated a clear disregard for the rules.

(But she can’t bring herself to lift her wand against him, knowing how regularly his own father does. She just—_needs_him to know, on a cellular, unconscious level, that she’s not capable of hurting him the way Lucius does.)

(needs him to know she loves him.)

And so they’re standing there, and he’s raising his eyebrows at her because she _needs _to do something and it’s all so out of character, and she’s so frustrated with the ease with which he tells her to hurt him, so frustrated with Ron over her shoulder snarling, so frustrated with Harry who constantly shies away from the confrontation, and she just—the muggle part of her takes over.

She’s punching Draco before it really registers that it’s what she’s doing, and he’s so shocked he doesn’t even have words, but she can almost see the surprised laugh in his eyes.

They’re running off, and she’s pretty pissed that physical violence is what has Ron speaking toward her in a positive tone, and Harry looks both impressed and taken aback.

Then Scabbers is alive, and if she weren’t so drained she would absolutely _rail _at Ron for all the shit he’s given her this term, would use this as ammo to just eviscerate him and call him on all the shitty things he’s been doing, how terrible of a friend he’s been to her.

But she’s just too tired—doesn’t have the energy to bother.

(She knows Harry’s probably assuming she’s trying to ‘be the better person’, but—that’s not really her, anymore. The part of her with that kind of compassion is long gone.)

It happens so quickly, after that—the dog, and the whomping willow, and by the time she’s really processed everything she’s in the shrieking shack with a rat and a mass murderer.

Crookshanks is there too, curling around Sirius’s legs fondly, and if they weren’t about to die Hermione would think it funny that her kneazle seems to be such a fan of the Black family line.

Somewhere along the line Romeo scribbles a brief _do you have time to talk? _but she’s too busy to even think about it more than to hope everything’s okay on his end.

And then Lupin is there—and she _knows _something is up with him, and with Sirius, she’s been saying all semester it doesn’t add up, so she’s really not all that worried that the two of them are friends, honestly.

She’s prepared to ask them the real story—to try to find out what _exactly_ is happening, why Sirius Black dragged _Ron _of all people into the secret hide out—when Professor Lupin steps forward, eyes wide. “You switched without telling me, then?”

Sirius nods, and Lupin steps forward and hugs him wordlessly; the embrace is so tight, so personal, Hermione feels like she’s intruding.

Sirius looks to where Harry and Ron are crouched in the corner, and says, “Shall we kill him together, Moony?”

And she can’t stop herself; in a panic, she screeches, “I trusted you! How could you—Harry, Ron, he’s a werewolf!” because if their own teacher is going to kill them, she wants him to know that she’s been keeping his secret all term, wants him to feel the guilt of knowing she defended him even as he prepares to kill her.

Lupin remains unfazed, just raises his eyebrows looking almost proud. “You really are the brightest witch of your age, Hermione.”

“She’s a mini-Evans, then?” Sirius asks, the ghost of a smile on his face.

“I think she could give even Lily a run for her money,” Lupin admits.

“How can you talk about her when you sold her out?” Harry demands, eyes shining with tears. “And now you’re here to finish the job!”

Sirius doesn’t seem at all upset by the accusation—he starts laughing, in fact. “He’s just like Prongs—merlin, Moony, the dramatics.”

“Because you would know nothing about drama,” Lupin says dryly.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten you somehow convinced Dumbledore to let you _teach_, Remus—I don’t know who on earth thought that was a good idea.”

“Not that I _want_ you to kill us, but honestly if you’re going to could you just get on with it! Jesus, I have plenty else to be afraid of if you’re going to reminisce all day!” The words are out of Hermione’s mouth before she can stop them.

Harry and Ron are looking at her like she’s insane, but Sirius smiles softly. “I think you might be a bit like me, too, love. The kneazle’s yours, then?”

“I—yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Kindred spirits, kitten—that’s why he’s taken to me. Anyway, yes, we will ‘get on with it’, as you so eloquently put it, but you three don’t need to be so dramatic—I’m just here for the one who should’ve died twelve years ago.”

“Really, Padfoot, how can you complain about dramatics and then say shit like that,” Lupin mutters with an eye roll. “Harry, Sirius never betrayed your parents, and he’s not here to kill you. He’s only ever loved you, from the day you were born—trust me, I was there.”

“Then who was supposed to die twelve years ago?” Ron demands, pale from pain but clenching his jaw and attempting to lean in front of Harry defensively.

“Peter Pettigrew!” Sirius exclaims, for the first time all night looking as insane as the papers claim. “Your animagus is just _too_ spot on, isn’t it, Peter?”

“I know that name,” Harry whispers.

“Yeah, he’s the one that tried to stop Sirius after you-know-who went after you,” Ron reminds him.

But Harry shakes his head. “No, the map…”

Lupin nods in understanding. “Yes, Harry, the map is how I knew Peter was alive and Sirius wasn’t the traitor after all—the map never lies.”

“But I don’t understand what Peter Pettigrew has to do with us,” Hermione says, the shakes of adrenaline coursing through her.

“He’s a rat,” Sirius hisses. “A rat in every way.”

“Oh, god—Scabbers. I thought—” Harry turns to Ron, scratching the back of his head nervously. “I thought the map just had a glitch with you, so did the twins—it said Peter Pettigrew was with you sometimes, but I assumed the map was just wrong, and something about him altered it.”

“Unfortunately, it _is _him, Harry. Had to go into hiding once he framed Sirius, I suppose.” Lupin explains. “Back when everything happened, during the war…I was spying for Dumbledore and the Or—the group that was opposing the Death Eaters. You-know-who had a significant group of werewolves on his side, and I had infiltrated them, and—well, Sirius wasn’t handling the friends of ours who had died, or the threat against your parents very well.”

Sirius grimaces. “I may have gotten a _bit_ overexcited.”

“You started raiding known Death Eater homes alone on your motorcycle after Alice and Frank were attacked,” Lupin says dryly.

“They were some of our best friends and—anyway, Harry, we knew there was a traitor in our midst, and my…less responsible actions made Remus suspect it might be me. But because Remus was amongst known Voldemort sympathizers, and every time I saw him we were fighting…” Sirius sighs heavily, looking ashamed. “I assumed it was him as well. When your dad needed a secret keeper—I was the obvious choice, so the Death Eaters would come after me for sure; I figured we switched it without telling anyone, they’d never stand a chance at finding you and your parents.”

Hermione sucks in a breath. “So you had Peter do it. But he’d been the traitor all along.”

“Clever kitten,” Sirius praises with a smile. “Exactly. And when I went to confront him, he killed all the muggles around us and framed me for it. Transformed, and has been living with the Weasleys ever since.”

Ron shakes his head. “No, that’s impossible—Scabbers is—”

“Much older than normal rats ever live, Ron,” Lupin says gently.

Harry lets out a deep breath. “As crazy as all of this sounds…it makes sense. Mia’s been saying all year she didn’t think you were the one after me, that you and my dad were best friends and something about the whole thing was off.”

Hermione blushes, but nods in agreement. “I’d heard about Sirius’s reputation before—everything. If he’d been anti-blood supremacism from the day he was born, had such a shitty relationship with his family his whole life and they were aligned with Voldemort…it wouldn’t make any sense to join their side once you were finally free of them.”

(Sirius watches her carefully—_she knows something about wanting to be free_.)

“Everything you’re saying…as different as it is from everything else that’s been assumed all these years, it makes a lot more sense,” Harry admits. “But could you—could you make Pettigrew turn back into a wizard? Just so we know for sure.”

“Anything you like, pup,” Sirius promises with a soft smile.

(Naturally, that’s when Professor Snape walks in.)

They think they’ve got everything under control, eventually, heading out of the Whomping Willow so full of hope.

(it only gets worse from there.)

/

It’s all Hermione can do to make sure Ron is okay when they make it to the hospital wing—it’s killing her, how everything went to shit so fast. For just a moment, things seemed like they might work out.

(Like Harry might have finally have a family.)

But now they’re here, covered in grime and sweat and a little bit of blood, and Sirius is being given the dementor’s kiss and Snape is being lauded and the fucking rat got free and _everything is so, so wrong_.

Dumbledore is telling them they can fix it—telling her and Harry to go back and fix it all, and Harry’s looking to her for answers, and she’s so overwhelmed and it’s on her to fix—everything is always on her to fix.

(she doesn’t understand why the fuck the headmaster is leaving two lives in her hands when she’s _fourteen years old_. Why someone so powerful is incapable of lending actual help beyond cryptic hints so she and Harry can do all the work.)

(why he can’t just extract the memories or pull out some veritaserum or _something_ to prove Sirius’s innocence—how is this legal system still allowed to ruin people’s lives this way? How deep is the ministry’s corruption that there’s no opportunity for fair trial?)

She’s too frazzled to explain it all to Harry before they go back; just puts the time turner over them and hopes the experience will explain for itself.

When they land in the afternoon, he’s oddly quiet.

At first, she attributes it to shock at the reality of time travel, but…not much fazes Harry anymore, and the thing about growing up muggle is all magic seems equally unlikely, so new things never seem that far-fetched.

It’s when they’re crouched in a broom cupboard, hiding from their past selves and waiting to be able to head down to the forest, that Harry speaks.

“Hermione…the map showed Peter Pettigrew by Ron all the time.”

She swallows. “Oh, god. Harry, you had no reason to suspect—there’s nothing we could’ve done.”

“No, I—that’s not it. I mean, a bit of course, but understand that as much as I can, I think. It’s just…if that wasn’t a fluke, and the map is never wrong, then…you hang out with Malfoy a lot.”

Hermione stands speechlessly—if they weren’t hiding she thinks she would be likely to run away at full speed.

“Mia?” Harry’s watching her carefully. “I don’t understand. You’re—you’re friends? With _Malfoy_?”

“He’s not what you think,” she whispers, heart pounding. “It’s—I promise, he’s a good person. The very best person.”

Harry doesn’t look angry, like she would’ve predicted; instead he just seems a little sad. “How long?”

“Harry—”

“How long, Hermione?”

“Since the chamber of secrets was opened,” she admits.

Harry swallows, not meeting her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you—did you not feel like you could?”

_He thinks she doesn’t trust him_—and he’s not even upset, because the Dursleys have so thoroughly conditioned him to believe he’s unworthy of love and friendship that it’s his instinct to assume that’s why she’d keep something from him.

“No, of _course_ not, Harry—you’re my best friend. My brother, really.” Hermione throws her arms around him, her lip beginning to tremble. “It’s killed me, keeping it from you, and—I wanted to, so many times, it just—it’s not safe, for anyone to know. If Lucius found out he’d probably kill us both. That’s why he’s such an arse all the time. The real him…I think the two of you would be good friends, actually.”

Harry nods in understanding, the hopeless look in his eyes beginning to abate. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”

(she ignores the way everything inside her tenses, the way her heart twists with fear and longing to be honest all at once.)

“No. But—Draco and I aren’t friends. He’s actually, um, my boyfriend.”

Harry just blinks, incapable of being shocked any further. “So we call him Draco now—alright, then.”

(Neither of them mentions how poorly Ron would take the revelation.)

They’ve lost track of time, and Hermione pops open the cupboard door to check whether they should be heading down to the forest yet.

“They’re gone, we should—we should go,” Harry whispers, tossing the invisibility cloak over them both.

They walk as quickly and quietly as they can; naturally, Harry can’t stop himself when they pass by the three Slytherins, huddled just inside the castle doors.

“I just want to listen for a minute,” he insists. “Maybe I’ll see what you mean about him being good and believe you more.”

“Not with Crabbe and Goyle you won’t,” Hermione rolls her eyes. But she makes no move to stop him—knowing Harry, he’ll get bored in thirty seconds and anxious to get down near the shrieking shack.

She and Harry are so, so carefully quiet, so careful not to breathe too loud; Draco looks supremely bored, while Crabbe is going on with some story about his older sister.

After a moment, Draco turns, pulling a pen from within his robes to jot something down on his wrist.

“Is he using a _pen_? He uses _muggle_ things?” Harry demands, looking flabbergasted after whispering into Hermione’s ear.

She shushes him, eyes on Draco. She want to see his casual handwriting—he only ever uses calligraphy in front of her, as his father says he must for all public purposes.

(Being a Malfoy affects every moment of Draco’s life, she’s noticed.)

Hermione leans a bit closer, smiling at the familiar way her boyfriend bites his lip; it’s fun to watch him write with such a carefree manner, the way he never does when they’re doing research.

She’s not trying to snoop on his messages with his soul mate, just wants to take a closer look at the laidback scrawl he’s using, except when she sees it up close, it’s—familiar.

(So familiar her soul knows it.)

She thinks it’s just a coincidence for a moment, looks at the _do you have time to talk?_ on Draco’s skin with a careful consideration.

But she can’t lie to herself for long; she holds her own shaking wrist up beneath the invisibility cloak, inches away from Draco’s and she can’t deny it.

“That’s impossible,” she whispers—not quietly enough, because Draco’s head snaps upward, and then Harry is dragging her down towards Hagrid’s.

They make it to the cover of the forbidden forest, and Harry is trying to get her attention, but she’s just—mind blown.

_It’s not possible_. Her soul mate is a _muggle_—and Draco’s soul mate is a muggle, and there’s no way she could’ve been talking to Romeo every day and seeing Draco every day for years and not have realized they’re the same person.

(Could she?)

She had considered it the once, when the knowing Italian coincidence came up—hadn’t she had reasons for not believing it then?

She thinks back through it all, but the thing is—_it adds up_.

Romeo’s told her plenty over the years about his awful father, about the mother he has to protect, about how dangerous it would be for his father to know she and Romeo speak so regularly…and the aunt’s family Romeo has always detested could be the Lestranges she’s heard so many awful things about…

(It had always seemed like fate that she and Draco knew all the same books.)

And when Romeo’s best friend had soul mate drama…

(It was only months later Draco had brought Blaise into the fold, his soul mate having been kidnapped by the heir of Slytherin.)

And Draco’s soul mate had disappeared around the same time she’d been petrified—when Romeo had been beside himself with worry.

Arguing with Draco has always felt so familiar; their rapport had come so instinctively, and it came so quickly that it had felt like she was betraying Romeo. Romeo had wanted to discuss dating other people when she and Draco had kissed; god, even their _birthdays_ are the same month.

She’s been so blind to it, they both have, so convinced their soul mates were muggle because their ten-year-old selves had decided as much.

The murky memory comes to her—way back then, Romeo hadn’t known who Shakespeare was at first, had said his father was a bad person and couldn’t know about her only part way into the relationship.

(She must’ve said something muggle, then; that must be when he started reading muggle fiction.)

(She’d never thought Romeo might’ve maintained a muggle façade for her sake.)

“We have to move,” Harry says eventually, tugging on her arm and pointing to the place where their past selves are exiting the Shrieking Shack. “Lupin’s going to come right this way.”  
Hermione nods absentmindedly, follows behind him with full faith, because she just—can’t process it all, right now.

Their imminent deaths take precedence at one point, and she tunes in for long enough to imitate a howl and save their prior selves, and then they’re running and gasping and then the dementors and—

“More than one innocent life,” she rasps. “Harry, Buckbeak—Buckbeak is how we save Sirius.”

They race towards where they’ve kept the hippogriff, and as they’re flying up towards the tower where Harry’s godfather is being kept, Hermione squeezes his hand gently.

“The Patronus charm—I’m so proud of you, Harry. That was…simply amazing.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I—it’s stupid, but. I thought it was my dad, for a moment.”

“Wasn’t it, though?” Hermione asks, a bittersweet smile on her face. “He lives on in you, Harry. He gave his life for exactly this.”

Sirius gapes when they break him out, but a brilliant grin overtakes his face. “Your parents would’ve been…_so _proud, Harry. Well, maybe not Lily, actually, seeing as you’ve broken about a hundred school rules tonight and she always _was_a bit of a stick in the mud—”

All three of them laugh, and Hermione can see Harry wiping at his eyes when he thinks she’s not paying attention.

“Where will you go?” Harry asks, looking so small as he stares at Sirius; Hermione sees the resignation in her best friend’s face. Knows he’s not even surprised things didn’t work out well for him—is used to it all.

“Not sure yet,” Sirius says, a lightness to his tone she’s sure is for Harry’s benefit. “But I’ll figure something out. You’re safe, and I’m freer than I’ve been in years—how could I be anything but happy?”

“There must be something we can do,” Hermione insists, brows scrunched together. “Someone who can help, or somewhere…”

She wishes Draco were here, wishes she could ask what he would do—he would come up with something, he always does.

(That’s when the inspiration strikes her.)

“Oh! I’ve got it—Dobby!”

Harry looks beyond befuddled, but the elf in question appears with a wide smile. “Miss Hermione called Dobby? And Harry Potter is here too!”

Her heart pounds, but she can’t second guess herself now. “Yes, Dobby, I’m afraid we need your help if you’re able. This is Harry’s godfather, Sirius.”

Sirius jerks backwards at the sight of the elf. “Lucius Malfoy’s elf? Are you trying to get me murdered, kitten?”

“Hush,” Hermione orders him. “I’m trying to save your life. Dobby, you might’ve heard some awful things about Sirius, but none of it is true; he needs a place to stay, a place that might be safe. I—I was thinking you might be able to help him and Buckbeak get to Andromeda Tonks’s, if she might be willing to help; Draco has always spoken of her so highly, and…well, if you were to bring Sirius there, and maybe explain to her the situation, tell her that Draco vouches for him?”

“What do you know about my cousin Andy?” Sirius asks, staring at her with wide eyes. “What on earth—”

“I am trying to save your life right now, do you really want to raise issues with the way I do it,” Hermione hisses, before turning back to Dobby. “Would you be able to do that, Dobby?”

“Of course, miss!” Dobby assures her. “Master Draco is telling Dobby to always listen to Miss Hermione months and months ago. Dobby is happy Miss finally wants his help!”

“Thank you, Dobby. So much,” she praises.

“Right, er—thank you, Dobby. And Sirius—you’ll write me?” Harry pleads.

“Every day if you want, pup. Thank you, kitten,” Sirius bows his head to Hermione before pulling Harry in for a hug. “You two take care of each other. Remus and I will talk to you soon, alright?”

(it stings, how it feels almost the way things should’ve been—Uncle Pads and Uncle Moony on the other end of a letter.)

Dobby snaps his fingers and the three disapparate, leaving an exhausted Harry and Hermione alone on top of the tower.

“You have so much explaining to do,” Harry pants as they race down to the hospital wing under the invisibility cloak.

“I know. I—let’s just get to where we need to be, time-wise, and then—everything. I’ll tell you everything.”

/

They’d make it back just in time for Snape and the minister to barge in; Dumbledore winking at them before heading out, as though it’s all fine and handled when he’s been nowhere to be seen when they _needed_ help.

(this is when Hermione decides she hates him—his treatment of the Slytherins, his treatment of Harry, the ease with which he risks the lives of others’—she hates him for it all.)

She motions for Harry to follow her as soon as Ron falls asleep, and they make their way up to the RoR under the Invisibility cloak, Harry gaping at the magic of the space, to find Draco pacing within.

He starts at the motion of the door opening, and Hermione steps out from under the cloak before Harry.

“Don’t freak out,” she manages to say, a small part of her enjoying the retribution.

Harry becomes visible, and Draco just—blinks.

“I—” she has no idea where to start. So much has happened, and yet the only thing she can think about is the fact that he’s her _soul mate_, that the two people she’s so in love with are one and the same and it makes so much _sense_ and she’s drowning in it all.

“Harry knows,” she begins with, drawing a cocked eyebrow from Draco.

“Yes, well, I assumed that from his being here, love. How much does he know?”

Harry crosses his arms. “Enough that I’m currently scripting the ‘hurt-her-and-I’ll-kill-you’ brother speech you should’ve gotten ages ago.”

Crookshanks pads over to Harry, slinking between his legs until Harry picks him up.

Draco half-smirks. “I suppose if Crooks likes you that’s good enough for me. He always _has_ had good taste.”

Hermione pulls her boyfriend to the couch, waving for Harry to join them. “I’m glad to hear you say that, actually, because as it turns out Crooks is a big fan of Sirius Black. Who was framed all along. And we helped break out of the castle.”

Draco snorts. He rubs at his eyes, looking too tired to be surprised. “Anything else?”

“Er—he needed a place to stay so I asked Dobby to bring him to your Aunt Andromeda and vouch for him?”

“Of course you did,” Draco laughs. “I bet she’ll love that. The two biggest Black family blood-traitors under one roof—she never _has _believed Sirius was capable of murder.”

Harry waves his arm in Hermione’s line of vision. “Hi, that part confused me even when it happened, please explain.”

“Andromeda is my mother’s sister,” Draco says, sliding his fingers through Hermione’s and feeling himself calm at the familiar sensation. “She was disowned because she married a muggle-born, and no one in the family has spoken to her since—or at least, not that anyone knows of. She and my mother are actually still quite close, whenever they can communicate without Father knowing, and she and I have spoken regularly my entire life. She’s staunchly against blood purism, and fought against Voldemort throughout the war; sending Sirius to her is honestly perfect.”

Harry nods in understanding, then purses his lips. “So—how, exactly, did all of this happen?” he motions at the two of them, the room around them; at Crookshanks who has now crawled onto Draco’s lap.

Hermione remains uncharacteristically silent, as Draco tells him how it came about—the chamber, their friendship ever since, the exact date they started dating.

She can feel them both watching her—they’re the two people who know her best in the world, of course they’re taken aback by her near catatonic-state.

“I’m gonna head to bed, I think…god knows I’ll sleep well tonight,” Harry says wryly. “Mia do you want to come with, or…”

“I—I need to talk to Draco about something for a bit. I’ll see you in the morning?”

Harry nods, presses a kiss to the top of her head before he heads out.

Draco turns his torso toward her immediately. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” Her eyes widen, flabbergasted. “No, of course not! Why would you think that?”

“Well, you haven’t spoken to me much the whole night; you’re barely meeting my eyes. And you’re just…not acting like yourself around me.”

“I promise it’s nothing like that. I love you,” she tells him softly, hearing his sharp intake of breath at the confession. “It’s just…I have to tell you something. And I have no idea how, or how you’ll take it.”

“Why do you sound like you’re about to tell me you’re pregnant?” Draco asks playfully. “If I didn’t know it was impossible seeing as we’re both virgins I would genuinely think I was about to become a father.”

(Hemione’s blood turns to ice at the comment.)

She takes a deep breath, tries to relax the muscles that just went tense. “No, it’s—you know how I’m usually right about things?”

Draco rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond. “Yes, I’m well aware. What do you get to say ‘I told you so’ about now?”

“No, the thing is—I was wrong about something. We both were, actually.”

His face contorts with worry, and her hand shakes as she reaches into her bag for a pen.

Draco looks baffles as she brings the pen to her wrist, where the earlier message had already been washed away.

Seconds later, Draco’s own skin reads, _it turns out our soul mates aren’t muggles._

His jaw drops—more surprised than she’s ever seen him.

“You—you’re Juliet. You’ve been Juliet this whole time.”

“Yes,” Hermione whispers. “I—I just found out today, but…now it seems like the most obvious thing in the world.”

“I’d wondered,” Draco says softly, “it seemed so impossible for there to be two people who understood me so perfectly—so much better than anyone else. The closer you and I have gotten, the more confused I was, and—of _course_.”

He kisses her quickly, then just pulls her into his arms; she tightens her embrace, content to be wrapped up in him, both of them safe. _Her soul mate._

It changes things, in some ways; they won’t have to use Dobby to send letters, for one.

But some things won’t change at all.

(It’s a relief, a weight they didn’t notice until it was gone.)

/

She’s on the train home, anxiety too ramped up for her to sleep or read during the expanse of time.

(the last week was so hectic, she hadn’t had time to think about how soon it was.)

The familiar _x_’s are on her wrist, the day familiarly too dangerous for either her or Draco to receive messages.

Ron is exuberant, as always, making plans for all the grand things they’ll do over the summer; Harry is playing along, putting on a happy face, but Hermione knows he’s just as reluctant as she is to return home.

(It hurts too much for either of them to talk about, still, but—they know.)

She makes her way down to the compartment where Luna and Ginny sit, Ginny talking with Neville while Luna sits engrossed in her publication.

Eventually, Neville falls asleep, and Ginny turns to Hermione carefully.

“Are you okay, Hermione? You’ve been…not yourself, lately.”

“Yeah, I’ve just had…a lot going on. I’m sad the year is over. And—I found out who my soul mate is,” she confesses.

Ginny gasps. “Oh, merlin, that’s so exciting! Who is it? Unless—if you’re keeping it to yourselves for a while, I understand that too. I’m just so happy for you.”

Hermione reaches to wrap her arms around the younger girl, overwhelmed with love for her. “I think we are waiting a bit. But thank you.”

Luna smiles over the top of her magazine, and Hermione’s jaw drops.

“You knew all along! Luna Lovegood, I can’t believe you.”  
“You weren’t ready yet,” Luna shrugs. “I’m happy you two figured it out.”

Hermione shakes her head, but turns her attention back to Ginny. “And how are you doing, with—everything?”

“Better, I think. I—it’s easier now that I have a good year at Hogwarts to compare everything with, and all of the bad isn’t the only memory I have to go off of. And having you, and Luna, and Neville helps.”

“And the twins most of all?” Hermione teases.

“Yes, of course,” Ginny admits. “But then that’s nothing new. They’ve always been there, brightening any darkness in my world.”

“They’re pretty wonderful. But, anyway—write me again all summer, will you? And—take care of yourself?” Hermione’s voice is pleading, and she gives Ginny a significant look.

(They’d had a talk, the day before, about the weight Ginny has been losing—the way her nails have been turning blue, her hair falling out.)

(All Hermione can do is hope it got through to her—keep an eye out, and try to convince her friend she deserves more.)

(That there are other things she can control.)

By the time they arrive at the station, Hermione is more anxious than she’s been in months; she can feel her heart pounding in her chest as she retrieves her trunk before they disembark.

She’s nauseous at the thought of the months to come.

But on their way back through the muggle side of the station, she catches Draco’s eye; neither of them smiles, but she can see the love in every line of her soul mate’s face.

(And whatever else, she has him.)

(They’ll get through whatever life brings.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY!!! took them long enough, but then our kiddos have always been stubborn when they think they know best.  
thank y'all for all of your kind reviews and comments--you're such lovely humans, i appreciate each and every one.  
happy holidays to everyone who's been celebrating--may your new year's be everything you hope for.
> 
> plans for GoF chapters are in the works!!! i think they'll likely be the same length, but more per book, from here on out. 
> 
> much love!


	8. I'm lost, but that's alright

The summer before fourth year passes so, so slowly.

It’s easier to talk to Draco, now; on the days they can both receive messages, Hermione’s skin is absolutely _covered_. Their discourse is more fluid than it’s ever been, too; they hop back and forth between muggle and magical subjects, several conversations always happening at once, and it’s just—perfect.

(It gets them both through the bad days.)

Draco still likes to call her Juliet, sometimes; _“that’s who I loved first,” _he says.

(She sends her own battered, annotated copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ for his birthday present, and he spends hours laughing at her sarcastic handwritten comments in the margins.)

She sends Harry letters via muggle post; since his murderous godfather is on the loose, his aunt and uncle are pretending to be decent human beings—also, Dobby isn’t stealing his mail, so that helps.

And then, just a few weeks into summer, Andromeda Tonks shows up at Privet Drive with a smile and a wand pointed at Vernon Dursley.

(_“I am Harry’s second cousin, and though I offered to take him into my care after James and Lily’s passing, I was assured you were the _best _possible choice. It has been brought to my attention that you don’t deserve to care for a cockroach, and as such, Harry will be staying with me for the remainder of his school breaks until he is of age or until his godfather has a place of his own, and if you kick up a fuss I will transform the both of you into toilet brushes and put you for sale at the nearest store. I might even do so anyway.”)_

_(“May whatever god there is have no mercy on your souls, you abusive monsters. I do believe I’ll see you in hell,” _she hisses once Harry is outside, before slamming the door behind her and promising him he’ll never go back.)

Harry had gleefully relayed the interaction to Hermione over the phone Andromeda’s husband possesses, Sirius’s raucous laughter audible in the background.

She’s happy for Harry, truly—there’s no one who deserves that kind of happy home more than he does, the kind he should’ve had all these years. He’s an entirely different person, so much lighter, so much more joyful; not to mention how much stronger his magical abilities have grown without a summer being closed off from half of himself—and with Professor Lupin, now frequently referred to as Uncle Moony, over nearly every day (to visit Sirius, who is apparently his soul mate) and happy to tutor him.

(But a dark part of her is jealous of his happiness; she’s always loved how similar she and Harry felt, not being alone in her misery outside of Hogwarts, and yet now…well, it’s a part of their relationship she’d never thought she’d miss.)

In all honesty, Hermione’s making it day by day at the thought of the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, which—the last thing she would have _ever _imagined to be true.

But the Cup means an invite to the Weasleys from thereon out through time to board the Hogwarts Express; means Ginny, and Harry, and the twins, and the Burrow (the first place she’d ever known a house to _exude _love and—_home_.)

And Draco’s said he’ll be at the cup; even if they can’t talk, just seeing her boyfriend is a welcome comfort she can’t wait for.

She receives a missive from Sirius, at one point; _“kindred spirits, kitten—reach out if you need anything._

(She won’t take him up on it; can’t bear the thought of the shame and vulnerability that would come along with doing so.)

(But—it helps, knowing she’s not alone.)

/

Thrilled as she is to leave for the Burrow, it’s…hard, hopping from her own home into the happy Weasley family life.

Hermione overhears Molly whispering to Arthur about how she’s standoffish, and it makes her want to cry, because—she appreciates everything her friends’ mother does for her, she doesn’t ever want to come off as cold. Wants her to always know she’s grateful for the love and home they’re bothering to provide for another stray.

(But she’s on edge, and irritable and tired and the coddling is both unfamiliar and overwhelming, and she doesn’t always react well to it. Doesn’t know _how _to.)

She often seeks refuge in the twins’ room, the one place guaranteed to have no visitors bar Ginny, and occasionally Harry when he comes for Hermione’s company.

(he’d seen the look in her eyes when she arrived—knows she’s not very okay, at the moment.)

And it’s doubly useful, because the experiments Fred and George are working on genuinely fascinate her—while their purposes are more nefarious than she should perhaps be encouraging, it’s brilliant magic, and entertaining in a light-hearted way she hasn’t felt in a while.

Not to mention, with them she can talk to Draco (who occasionally gives suggestions for more effective ingredients to incorporate in their inventions).

It’s the closest she’s ever felt to her ideal life, curled up with a soft knit blanket on a beanbag in the twins’ room, Harry beside her as Draco scrawls witty remarks on her skin.

/

When the Cup arrives, it’s exhilarating; outside Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, this is the only time Hermione’s really gotten to experience the adult wizarding world she’s spent so many hundreds of hours reading about.

It’s overwhelming, being surrounded by so many people, so much magic—the night before the match starts, Fred and George filch some firewhiskey they share with her, Harry, and Ron, and Ginny blackmails them all into letting her have some. Molly and Arthur had gone off to have a night just the two of them, and Ron is too happy to be an ass, and it’s just—the most carefree fun any of them have had in ages, no troubles in sight.

Cedric Diggory is there, because evidently he lives not too far from the Burrow so they all shared a portkey over, and Hermione’s almost surprised they’ve never hung out with him before, because he fits right in with them—but then, he’s the kind of good, the kind of charismatic and genuine, that fits in anywhere.

He’s older, of course, Head Boy and beloved of all Hufflepuff and Hogwarts alike; Hermione finds herself watching him, the easy way Theo’s name rolls off his tongue.

(She doesn’t know how to explain, when he catches her staring; _I hope someday my story can look like yours, please tell me how to publicly date a Slytherin from an antagonistic house without fear—_)

It’s different, of course; Cedric is pureblood, and his family decidedly neutral in the scheme of things. But given how tense interhouse relations at Hogwarts are, even their relationship seems incredible.

(Seems like hope.)

Even so, the jarring switch from home to this is still messing with her head; she knows she’s in a different place now, but still.

She’s ready to burst, prone to lashing out—

(She feels volatile.)

Late that night, Hermione borrows Harry’s invisibility cloak and sneaks out to meet Draco after midnight (earning her rolled eyes and several ‘don’t forget protection’ jokes from the twins); he puts up every security spell either of them has ever heard of before she comes out of the cloak. And it’s—different, being with him outside of Hogwarts. Being with him as his soulmate.

They’re both hiding how things have gotten at home, but they know each other too well to not figure out otherwise.

“Just a bit longer and we’ll be at Hogwarts, away from it all,” she whispers against his skin, grateful for his arms around her, the smell of him she knows means home.

(Means _safe_.)

“I don’t know how secure Hogwarts will be this year,” Draco rasps. “I’ve overheard some conversations of my father’s…things to do with other schools, and the ministry. I’m not sure what it all means, yet, but I’m going to try to find out.”

“Don’t get in the line of his wrath just for information,” Hermione begs him. “We might be able to figure it out a different way, it’s not worth you getting hurt over.”

He hums in a way she knows means he’s going to do it anyway, and she clutches him tighter until she returns to the Weasleys’ tent.

(She knows this is only the beginning.)

Though she’s not particularly a fan of Quidditch, it’s amazing, being surrounded by wizards from all over the world—this, this feeling of belonging and being a part of something, this is why has to keep her nose to the books.

(She can’t ever let them send her away from this world.)

The Bulgarian team brings a performance by veela, whom she’s only ever read about; she sighs when Harry and Ron both start to clamber forward, grabbing Harry’s collar while George grabs Ron’s. Fred grins at her before pretending to start towards the display, given that his parents would be suspicious if he didn’t, not knowing about Oliver; Ginny rolls her eyes before elbowing him in the gut hard enough to send him back into his seat.

Across the way and in a place of honor, she eyes Draco, who’s standing stoically at Lucius’s side (he’d told her the night before Lucius intended for them to use beeswax, but Draco knew he wouldn’t need it—knew he stood no chance of being swayed by the magic. The comment makes her blush).

The Cup itself is over relatively quickly, which Hermione is grateful for, having read about month-long games previous and knowing Harry and Ron would have refused to leave until the very end.

Then there’s screaming, and though he’d written the _x_ on his wrist that morning, in block letters Draco writes _RUN_.

It’s too crazy, all of it; the fires, and stampedes, and masked men she thinks are the KKK for a moment.

(But no—as wonderful as everything special about the wizarding world is, as much as it has its own schools and systems, it has its own monsters, its own bigotry, too.)

They bump into Draco in the woods, and when he sees her his eyes are—terrified. So wholly scared for her, it’s in every line of his body.

“This isn’t a good place for people like you,” he says to her, and of course Ron gets upset and perceives it as a threat, but she knows it’s a warning—this is her soul mate _begging _for her to get to safety.

Harry sees it, too, and he grabs her arm before the three of them start running further away.

Somehow, they’re being accused of having cast the Dark Mark when Hermione can’t take it anymore, screeches, _“I am a **muggleborn**!” _and watches the grown men with their wands (their weapons) pointed start to lower them.

And then they’re accusing a house-elf, and Hermione wants to scream; this poor creature is at the behest of her master and they’re holding her accountable because otherwise they’d have to call out their rich friends.

She’s so fucking tired of wizards treating everyone around them like trash because that’s the way it’s been done for the last eon; so over the way everyone stands idly by while atrocities keep being committed.

So she says, “Winky—I, I would like you to work for me, if you’d like.” She searches her mind for the right words. “I—extend my magic, that is, and tie you to the Granger line, if you so agree.”

The part where she’s offering Winky agency isn’t typically included, of course, but she’s already going against her better judgement in taking on a servant, she’ll be damned if she doesn’t give her a choice in the matter.

Barty Crouch looks enraged. “That isn’t how things are done! You aren’t of age, and—it’s disrespectful to take on an elf another wizard has disowned. It’s an insult to the previous master’s house.”

She has to remind herself not to shake in his presence—she is _not _lesser than, and he is in the wrong, however much her instinct is to cower.

“Yes, because house-elves without a family tie die, and those who don’t do as you wish should die, shouldn’t they, Mr. Crouch? I’m seeing now how you’ve been so successful in your department. Tell me, do purebloods also wait until children are of age to allow them an elf?”

Harry is tugging at her wrist, and Ron is shaking his head with wide eyes, pleading with her to stop, but she’s so pissed, and—it’s not fair, the things this corrupt system gets away with. “You just pointed no less than _ten _weapons at three innocent children without due cause, Mr. Crouch. I believe, given the obvious misstep on your part, you can allow me this.”

“I would tread carefully, if I were you, young lady,” Mr. Crouch says through his teeth.

But she’s not done. “And if I were _you_, I would not continue threatening someone who knows that in what your team has already done tonight you’ve violated at least five sections of British Wizarding law, and several Ministry Ethics policies; of course, that’s just what I know off the top of my head, I could find more at the library, I’m sure.”

Crouch narrows his eyes at her, but there are too many witnesses, and the number is only growing as Mr. Weasley and several other Ministry employees are sprinting towards them now. “Very well. Take the elf. But I’ll remember this.”

_Why would you? I’m just a Mudblood_, she resists the urge to say, to let him know she’s aware of which side he’s on at heart.

“Winky,” she says softly. “Please go to Hogwarts and ask Professor Dumbledore if you can stay there, for now. I’ll call for you as soon as things are sorted, and we can figure all this out, okay?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Winky agrees quietly, face still red from crying, but looking much less distraught now that her life is not being threatened.

She can see Mr. Weasley taken aback when he’s informed what she’s done; the way he shushes them all until they’re back at the Burrow.

He sends Harry and Ron to bed, and is just—pacing, in front of where she sits.

(She loves and trusts Arthur, has always felt he cared for her like a daughter, and even still—being alone with him makes her breathing grow shallow.)

“Hermione, what on earth were you thinking?”

“I—the way he was treating Winky was barbaric! I couldn’t just stand by and let him condemn her to death, and I had the knowledge to do otherwise—”

Arthur wipes his face, looking exhausted. “I understand that, sweetheart. But men like Crouch have too much power—you can’t go right up and challenge him without repercussion! You’re on their radar now.”

“I’m best friends with Harry Potter, I was going to be on their radar anyway. I had to say _something_,” she says desperately, voice breaking. “The way the wizarding world treats house-elves, and everyone they think is lesser…”

“Don’t you think I of all people know that? Hermione, my entire _job _is protecting muggles from the actions of wizards; there’s a reason why that job is a laughingstock, a reason why my department has the least funding. I do it anyway, because I can’t stand the sight of it all, either, because we need change. But wizards like Barty—he could make you disappear and no one would investigate a thing. You need to be _careful_, or you won’t _be _there long enough to change things.”

“It’s not like I’ve ever been safe, anyway.” She swallows thickly; the words hit home too hard, they make her chest heavy. “I—I appreciate your concern, Mr. Weasley. I’ll find ways to be more careful in the future.”

“It’s all out of love. I want you to achieve all your aims,” he promises, giving her hand a squeeze before heading to bed.

Harry and Ron are still wide awake when she gets upstairs, of course, looking entirely too shocked for her liking.

“I thought you hated people owning house-elves,” Harry says first.

“I—it’s a disgusting system, but my main problem is the way they’re treated. The thing is—house-elves can’t survive an extended period of time without a family or source tie. That’s why wizard-elf bonds were created in the first place; or perhaps wizards cursed elves so that would be the case, I haven’t been able to find texts going far enough back to be sure. They can exist independently for a year or so, but beyond that their magic begins to fade, and—eventually they die, if they’re not tethered to a family line, or to a place like Hogwarts with enough internal magic to bond them.”

Harry’s jaw drops, but Ron nods in agreement. “I don’t know that much detail, but—that’s what we’re taught in pureblood societies, too. That’s why I was so against it when you were thinking of starting that organization to ‘free’ all the elves—it’s not really freeing them.”

“S.P.E.W. will still exist, Ronald, but not to free them, merely to improve the conditions in which they are living and working.”

“I understand that part, then, and why you felt like you should help Winky,” Harry says. “But going head to head with Crouch like that…”

“And threatening him?” Ron shakes his head in disbelief. “The whole thing was downright Slytherin.”

Hermione purses her lips, frustrated. “Of course you would think so, because you equate Slytherin with bad, and that was one of the darker things I’ve ever done.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That was actually the most Gryffindor I’ve ever been! It was reckless, so completely not the smart thing to do, but I felt a moral obligation to act. Gryffindor is supposed to mean valuing bravery, and chivalry—which is all about moral and social code! That’s _exactly _what that was, Ron!”

Without responding, Ron storms off angrily, leaving Hermione with a confused looking Harry.

(And the knowledge that this is a fight she’ll be having for the rest of her life.)

/

/

Something inside Hermione calms the moment she steps on the train—a part of her that knows, deep down, there’s truly no better place for her to be, no place that is safe, no place she wholly belongs more than Hogwarts.

After the first hour, Ron goes off to find Dean and Seamus and catch up on each others’ summers, leaving Harry and Hermione to bask in the quiet, for a moment.

(And as much as she does consider Ron her friend, it’s nice to be able to throw up a silencing spell and talk to Harry about Draco.)

“Listen, no rooting for Slytherin during Quidditch this year, I mean it,” Harry says seriously without blinking.

Hermione huffs indignantly. “I did _not_ root for Slytherin!”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, I did, but not when they were playing Gryffindor!”

“Still a traitor! We root for Gryffindor or no one at all. Just because Draco and I are on good terms now doesn’t mean I don’t want to crush him on the field.”

She rolls her eyes. “Athletes, I swear.” Ink begins to creep across her skin. “Speak of the devil—Draco says he and Blaise have pitched a fit and commandeered a compartment to themselves, if we want to sneak over under the Invisibility Cloak.”

Harry agrees, grabbing the plastic bag full of muggle objects Blaise had asked about in their letters over the summer before throwing the Cloak under them both.

“You’re getting too tall for both of us to be under here,” Hermione whispers as they make their way down the corridor. “It’s lucky we don’t have to fit all three of us anymore because there’s no way, especially given that Ron’s become a beanpole.”

“Lucky you figured out disillusionment charms, really. Now shh, I don’t feel like having to edge around Pansy Parkinson if she hears us.”

They find the compartment easily, an extravagant two-layer dark green curtain eclipsing the entire compartment from view.

“Prat,” Hermione mutters under her breath fondly before tapping on the door once, lightly, such that it could be confused for something outside the window.

Blaise opens the door, making a show of acting like he’s looking for something in the hall until Harry taps his shoulder from under the Cloak.

As soon as the door is shut, Draco begins putting up wards, and Blaise pushes a trunk up against the door for good measure.

“All clear,” Draco says with a smile.

Hermione heaves the cloak off and throws her arms around him, pressing her lips to his collarbone gently without speaking.

“Missed you, love,” he says softly, one hand rubbing circles on her back.

She can’t put words together, just nods and knows he understands she means the same.

(She has Draco and Harry beside her, and Ginny is somewhere on the train, and they’re on the way to Hogwarts, and the knowledge of it all makes her feel like she’s able to _breathe _for the first time in months.)

(Things feel _right_.)

They sit down to catch up, to share everything that’s happened they haven’t been able to pen or have Dobby relay, and Hermione hums with contentment, her fingers running through Harry’s hair where his head lays in her lap half-asleep, Draco’s arm around her shoulder.

“They’re bringing back the Triwizard Tournament. That’s what all the hubbub at the ministry was about, all summer; Hogwarts is hosting.”

Hermione bites her lip nervously, while Harry drowsily mumbles, “What’s a Triwizard?”

“Tournament, you dunce,” Draco says. He jokingly flicks Harry, though the motion isn’t antagonistic. “Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons—two of the other main wizarding schools, in Russia and France—each chooses a champion to represent the school, and they go head to head in three tasks to basically determine who’s the most skilled.”

“It’s really dangerous,” Blaise elaborates. “My family that’s in Italy believes all three countries are barbaric because of it—so many students have died over the years.”  
Hermione presses a hand to her mouth. “Why would anyone even enter in the first place?”

“Same reasons people do anything inhumane, isn’t it? Gold, God, glory. Humans throw away all their beliefs and righteousness for those three things.”

“It’s a thousand galleon prize, if you win. It’s enough to change your life.” Draco looks into the distance. “Dumbledore himself is the last one to have won—mind you, he was probably in it for the glory, and the reputation.”

Hermione’s lip curls, the way it does whenever Dumbledore is mentioned, lately. “I’m sure. He’s a man who only cares about power and being in control.”

(Everyone assumes otherwise, since he continually turns down the Minister’s job, but Hermione knows better—knows he has even more power this way, every young mind in the country being trained to look up to him, to listen to him, to believe he knows best.)

(And all the while, they’re all more inclined to assume his motives are genuine, because why would someone with a _“my way or the highway”_ mentality turn down being the leader of the country?)

“Well, count _me _out,” Harry mutters. “I literally cannot think of anything less appealing. Maybe the tournament will keep people’s eyes on the champions—get them to leave me alone, for once.”

Hermione holds back a snort, soft smile on her face. “Tell them about your dreams, Harry,” she encourages.

He sits up slowly, a frown on his face. “I—I’ve been having these dreams all summer, but they’re more like—memories, almost. Except in real time; it’s almost like I’m seeing through his a snake’s eyes—Voldemort’s snake, I mean.”

Draco’s brows pull together, the blood rushing out of his face. “That’s impossible. He’s gone. What my father did second year didn’t work, he—”

Harry shakes his head. “He’s not—what he used to be, I don’t think. In the dreams it seems like he’s relying on Wormtail. I don’t even know if it’s real, but—I wake up with my scar hurting.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Hermione reassures Draco, sliding her fingers through his and rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll find a way to get through it.”

(She doesn’t know if she’s trying to convince him or herself.)

/

Midway through his speech, Dumbledore indicates that Quidditch will be cancelled for the year, and nearly half the student body is up in arms.

Ginny makes a face—more upset than Hermione would’ve predicted, and when Hermione gives her a questioning look Ginny leans in closer.

Softly, she says, “I was hoping to play this year. I—it’s easier to keep myself from going overboard, from—not taking care of myself—when there’s a schedule. And, just—the team gets dinner together a lot, and I—” Ginny closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before reopening them. “I’m struggling to stay on track with—recovery. And I was hoping Quidditch, and the routine, would help.”

(_help me feel less guilty every meal, remind me my body being strong is more important than its size—)_

“I’m sorry, Gin,” Hermione says gently, squeezing the younger girl’s shoulder. There are no words—nothing she can say or do and make the battle Ginny’s been fighting end. “But we will find ways other than Quidditch to do that, yeah? You and I can have dinner every night, and I’m sure Harry or the twins would practice with you if you ever want, or I think Luna goes on a run every day? Maybe you could join her. You’re not alone, I promise. I—I know I don’t understand, but I’m on your side, whatever you need.”

(_Whatever it takes to help you find yourself, again; find the person you were before your mind turned on itself, the person you will be after you win the war against yourself.)_

Fred grumbles dramatically, half-hearted comments about _“now my boyfriend and my sport are gone, the hell am I supposed to do” _to lighten the mood, though the girls’ conversation wasn’t audible to him. He and George have always been much more perceptive about how people are feeling, and what they need, than anyone gives them credit for.

As Draco had warned them, the Triwizard Tournament is announced during the welcome feast, Barty Crouch making an appearance (and making Hermione’s blood boil) with none other than Percy Weasley at his side.

Everyone around her is so _excited, _thinks the prospect of the tournament is the best idea ever; how is it that they’re praising something so dangerous? How are they not seeing that this isn’t _normal_, that it’s not okay for the people in charge, the people trusted with their well-being, are putting them in mortal danger for entertainment and school pride? Why are they thrilled for their classmates to go through horrible experiences just to say they did, to be stronger for it all, to prove their worth?

(How is there not already enough suffering in the world?)

She and Harry lock eyes worriedly amidst the cheers, wonder when they’ll all realize there’s nothing beautiful about going through trauma, that most times it’s not worth the strength the pain brings you.

(It just hurts, in a way you can never escape.)

/

Hermione makes her way to the Transfiguration classroom, knocking on the door to Professor McGonagall’s office within; during the feast, a small owl had dropped a note from McGonagall asking her to come by after the Welcome.

“Do come in, Miss Granger.”

The older woman eyes her as she sits, quiet for a moment.

“Professor—”

“I heard about your rather eventful experience at the Cup,” McGonagall says without preamble.

“Mr. Weasley’s already given me a lecture on playing it smart around the powers that be, if that’s where you’re going with this,” Hermione says with a grimace. “I didn’t think through the consequences on a broader scale before acting.”

McGonagall raises an eyebrow. “Then I expect you’re already feeling more guilty than I could ever attempt to make you. That was not my intention.”

“Then why am I here, Professor?”

“As I said, I heard about your actions. I’ve interacted with the elf in question some since she’s come to Hogwarts, after the incident.” She’s quiet for a moment and then—“Have a biscuit, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes widen comically, but it appears McGonagall is serious, a cookie tin pushed forward on the table.

“I wanted to check in with you, after last year. While you are more than capable, I feel it would be in your best interest to drop some of the excess courses you were taking, and I would like to start talking about your long-term plans, and how they align with your coursework and experiences.”

“Oh, well—I’ve already dropped divination, of course. But the rest…I’d really like to keep, if that’s okay. And I know everyone thinks I should drop Muggle Studies, seeing as I’ve grown up in the muggle world, but I really do think it’s important for me to know what the wizarding world believes, and does and does not understand, especially in terms of my eventual career. And without divination, the times shouldn’t clash, so I should be able to attend all of them without a time-turner.”

McGonagall smirks. “I had a feeling you might say that. Which is why I took the liberty of speaking with Professor Burbage, who is perfectly happy for you to _audit _her class, seeing as you have over eleven years of practical experience with the subject matter. So you will attend class, and you can sit the OWL and NEWT if you so choose, but you will not be responsible for the day to day coursework, nor will you receive term grades for it.”

“Oh.” Hermione bites her lip nervously. “That’s actually—perfect, thank you Professor. Is there a catch?”

“Not this time, Miss Granger. I only ask that you take better care of yourself this year, else you may find yourself unable to succeed in the manner we both know you are capable. And please, do continue to attempt to keep Mr. Potter out of trouble, as always—to whatever extent doing so is possible.”

She nods hurriedly. “Of course, Professor. He’s family.”

The older woman gives a bittersweet smile in return. “Well, then, I believe that’s all I wished to discuss. Do come to me if anything is amiss during the year, will you? I _am _your head of house, after all, so I am always here if you find yourselves in need of an adult on your side.”

Hermione squirms—the way McGonagall is looking at her, she’s almost positive the professor knows of her distaste for Dumbledore, knows how distrustful she finds herself around all adults.

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you—for everything, really.”

It’s only once she’s begun to open the door that McGonagall calls out, “And Hermione?”

She blinks in surprise at the sound of her first name. “Yes, Professor?”

“Don’t ever let them change you.” It’s a command, and the professor’s eyes burn with the importance of it. “They reprimand you because it scares them to know what you’re capable of—the way you might shake the world, one day. It’s been a long time since there was a Gryffindor with the brains to back their recklessness, someone passionate about justice with the cleverness to enact it. They don’t want you to take away the privileges they think they deserve.”

(And she will—now it seems so improbable, a compliment she falls short of.)

(But _she will shake the world_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my loves--hope everyone is doing well!
> 
> I'm SO excited for what's in store during the GoF arc--lots of very specific moments are planned and I'm just hoping to do it justice when I put it all together. I can't wait for you to see it all (so like the next update or two will probably happen quickly even though i am crazy busy just bc i can't stop THINKING about it)
> 
> high key didn't even plan the winky plot point, but writing that moment in hermione's head, feeling so ready to explode and so righteously angry, it just felt like the kind of thing she wouldn't stand for.
> 
> next chapter will be champions selected, first task, and possibly through the yule ball!!!


	9. put your hands into the fire

When the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students arrive soon after, it’s like nothing that’s happened at Hogwarts in recent memory.

Their entrances are clearly rehearsed, orderly spectacles with just a hint of their magical prowess.

At one point George mentions that a girl from Beauxbatons looks familiar, but the moment is forgotten when Viktor Krum walks in near the back of the Durmstrang procession, sending nearly half the student body into chaos.

While Harry is quietly awed, the four Weasleys at the table are all fully freaking out, hissing and in some cases shrieking (Fred), united for what feels like the first time in ages.

Ron comments that he seems serious, almost aloof, _“probably because he knows we don’t deserve to be in his presence, which, who could blame him?”_

But Harry says quietly that he seems more overwhelmed than anything.

(it’s familiar, the way he walks so carefully, eyes jumping around the room to take everything in but not interacting, in the hopes of not causing any waves.)

It’s a week or two before the champions will actually be selected, so by the time the day arrives the anticipation has built up like crazy—there’s homework to do, but no one can focus, they’re all just trying to find ways to distract themselves till it’s time for dinner and the Goblet’s activity.

Ron and Dean are in the midst of their third game of Wizard’s chess, while Harry and Hermione are sprawled on the common room floor with a veritable mountain of blankets as Harry shows Hermione all the photos and mementos he’s collected over the last few months.

“This one’s from my parents’ wedding day,” he says, holding a yellowed scrap of parchment out to her. “Uncle Pads says my dad was hyperventilating while they were getting ready, he was so sure Mum would change her mind, so Pads sent her this, and Dad would only go to the altar once she’d written back.”

One side reads, _“Prongs is being stupid and thinks you’ll change your mind. Please correct him before I’m forced to handcuff him to the minister so he doesn’t run away.”_

On the other, Lily’s messy scrawl says, _“Of course I want to marry you, idiot. Get your ass to the altar or I’ll name the baby after Severus.”_

“Remus said she’d just told Dad she was pregnant with me two days before, so it was a real threat,” Harry says with a grimace. “He and Alice Longbottom had to talk her out of her plan to hex him as soon as she got to the altar.”

“Your parents sound so wonderful, Harry,” Hermione smiles wistfully. “I’m glad we get to hear about them, now.”

“Me too.” He hums as he goes through the pile of papers and photos and miscellaneous objects Sirius and Remus bestowed upon him throughout the summer, the letters Andromeda and his grandmother had exchanged for so many years when she was in need of a maternal figure.

“Oh! You remember I told you about my Aunt Andy’s daughter Tonks? This is her.” He shows a photo of him laughing with an ice cream cone in hand, a spot of the confection on his nose, next to a young woman with bright pink hair and smiling eyes. “You’ll love her, Mia—she’s an auror, so very badass and smart, but she’s also really goofy, and doesn’t let the world get to her.”

“I didn’t realize she was so young—she must be just a few years older than us.” Hermione feels her hopes rise, just the smallest bit; she hasn’t had an older female friend in…well, ever.

(It would be nice, to have someone to talk to—someone who might understand what her head is like, who’s been in their shoes and is on the other side.)

“Yeah, she gives Sirius shit about being an old man all the time. It’s great.” Harry grins. “And she doesn’t like to read as much as you, per say, but she knows a ton about magic—potions, charms, all of it, so you’ll have loads to talk about. I was thinking—if you wanted to come for Christmas, maybe? You could stay all of break—I’ve already asked Aunt Andy, she said she’d love to have you, and there’s plenty of room. I know it’s really far in advance, but I know you normally stay here over the holiday, and—”

He looks anxious—her best friend has probably never asked anyone over for anything, before, and he’s not meeting her eyes, so nervous she’ll say no.

“Oh, Harry! I’d love to.” Hermione beams at him before throwing her arms around him. “I—thank you. I know you just found a home, and it would make sense for you to keep it just for yourself for a while, so you inviting me is—well, I love you, is all. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, like there was never any other option. “You’re my family. Any home that’s mine has a place for you, always.”

Seamus runs in, shaking both Dean and Ron’s shoulders. “It’s time! It’s time, it’s time! Let’s go!”

And they do—the Great Hall has been magically expanded to fit all three schools’ students, of course, and yet tonight it seems more packed than ever; the room is electrified, everyone’s excitement palpable. Even the teachers seem less stoic than usual, whispering amongst themselves, eyeing the student body.

Fred and George amble along the tables, discreetly taking bets on who will be selected as the Hogwarts champion. They’d attempted to enter themselves, naturally, despite the hours Hermione spent explaining why their aging potion wouldn’t convince the Goblet otherwise.

(she’s been preening since they muttered _“you were right”_ on their way to the hospital wing after.)

It’s dead silent when Dumbledore stands, and he smiles out at the students.

“Good evening, everyone. I do hope you all enjoyed your meal, and have learned from each other thus far in our time together—our greatest hope for this year’s events is international magical cooperation, fostering collaboration and greater learning, making connections which you will benefit from for the rest of your lives.

“The time has come for our three champions to be selected, and our own English Minister of Magic, Minister Fudge, is here to do the honors as the Goblet of Fire’s time is upon us.”

Hermione rolls her eyes at Dumbledore playing the part; he can say all her likes about collaboration and cooperation, but she doesn’t doubt the tournament was his idea to bring back—to find the strongest young wizards and witches and begin bending them to his side, adding them to the ranks of those he convinces to do his bidding.

Taking his cue, the minister stands with a wave to the student body before approaching the goblet. “Many of you have submitted your names for consideration, and we are of course, grateful for your willingness to participate. However, there can only be three; the Goblet will indicate the three students most suited to the task alphabetically by school.”

The goblet’s flames flare up, and the minister catches the scrap that escapes when the burst dies down. “From Beauxbatons—Fleur Delacour.”

Beside her, Ginny has a sharp intake of breath.

But there’s not time to ask why, as Durmstrang’s slip emerges, and the entire Hall goes mad when Viktor Krum’s name is announced.

Hermione finds herself thrilled when Cedric is chosen—partially because they’re friends now, and she’s happy for him to have the opportunity even if she thinks it’s insanity, but also because it’s so stereotype defying, such a reminder to the school that no one can be boxed into a certain profile because of their house; everyone likes to treat Hufflepuff like the reject house of fuddy-duddy hippies and people who are nice but incredibly dumb, and yet one of the most famous ancient magical relics found _him _the most qualified in all the student body for a dangerous high-caliber tournament.

(Change is possible, she just _knows _it.)

But it doesn’t stop there—sparks fly once again, and before the Minister even reads the name she just _knows _exactly what he’ll say, because of course Harry can never catch a fucking break.

(The odds are never in their favor.)

The hall is booing him, and he looks so lost—and so small, so vulnerable, in a sea of angry faces.

Hermione jumps to her feet and joins him, threading her arm through his and lending him her strength.

“It must be a mistake. Hermione, I swear—”

“I know you didn’t. We’ll figure it out, Harry.” _We just have to make it through this, first. _

When they reach the doorway all the champions have disappeared through Dumbledore holds up a hand to stop them.

“Miss Granger, I’m afraid only champions are allowed inside.”

“I understand that, Professor, but Harry’s a minor! His aunt should be allowed to come and go with him, or—Professor McGonagall! It’s not fair for you to interrogate him and give him potentially critical information without a guardian present. I’m sure chapter three of _Hogwarts, A History _mentioned underage students being allowed such during meetings?”

Harry’s eyes widen, and he mumbles, “Never thought I’d be glad for you to have obsessed over that thing for so long.”

But Dumbledore merely dips his chin, relenting. “Very well. Minerva, if you so please?”

McGonagall acquiesces, coming to Harry’s side instantly. “Of course. Is that alright with you, Mr. Potter?”

“I—yeah, I mean, any help I can get really. Professor, I swear I didn’t—”

The older woman snorts, giving him a look over the top of her glasses. “Dear boy, you are a very talented and hardworking young wizard, don't get me wrong, but you’ve been in my class for three years; I’m well aware you couldn’t have confounded the Goblet. Nor do I believe you would’ve had any desire to do so.”

Harry gives Hermione a nervous smile before following her within, and then she’s just—waiting.

It feels like ages that it takes—she slides down the wall, sitting with her knees to her chest and trying not to think about how cold the floor feels.

Professor Flitwick releases the students from dinner, and she just—they’re all talking, assuming the worst about Harry, she’s sure—assuming he’s spoiled and attention seeking, when he’s so very much the opposite.

When the door finally opens, Harry’s the first one out, looking ready to run away.

“They’re going to make me do it. It—whoever put my name in, it was magically binding, so if I don’t compete it’ll kill me. Even if I do it, I—Hermione, I think this thing might kill me.”

Her heart breaks at the fear on his face, the hopelessness in his voice. After a beat, he starts to cry silently, rubbing at his eyes as they grow red.

“No. Before anything else, we’re going to speak with your Aunt Andy because I’m sure she will have words with both Dumbledore and the ministry, and—she’ll know what to do much better than we do, I think. Padfoot and Remus, too. And then—we’ll do whatever it takes to help you get ready, Harry. I can drop another class if we need more time, and there’s no Quidditch, so we can devote ourselves to making sure you’re prepared.”

He nods, sniffling a bit, but before he can respond the other champions begin to exit the room.

Hermione feels herself tense when Cedric spots them on the floor; he and Harry will be in a possibly fatal competition in mere weeks, and he has every reason to attack now, while Harry is vulnerable—

But he doesn’t. He comes over and sits with them, smiles at Harry. “I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind right now. You holding up okay?”  
“Sort of. Too overwhelmed to really process, at the moment.” He watches Cedric nervously, as though he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting for him to believe the worst.

Krum joins them on the floor, and a moment later Fleur approaches with a raised eyebrow. “Are we ‘aving a party on ze floor, now?”

Harry shrugs in reply.

Fleur laughs airily before sitting down between Cedric and Viktor. “I’m sorry you are being dragged into all of zis, ‘Arry. I would never ‘ave been able to do it at your age.”

“You—you all believe me?”

Krum nods, brows scrunched together as though he’d never considered otherwise. “You looked—terrified. It makes more sense that another set you up, than that you are such good actor.”

“Besides, you’re Harry Potter,” Cedric says softly. “If you had wanted more money or fame, you could’ve given interviews, or done any other million things that would’ve been way easier.”

“Not to mention I would’ve tied you to a chair before I let you enter,” Hermione mutters. “No one in their right mind would try.”

She winces when Cedric gives her a teasingly annoyed look. “Gee, thanks, Hermione. Good to see you too.”

“Er, sorry. I’m Hermione by the way,” she introduces herself to the other two champions.

“She’s my best friend,” Harry tells them. “If you spend any time in the library you’ll bump into her.”

“We’ll probably be seeing much of each other, then.” Viktor smiles. “Back home, they say I am always either vith the books or on a broom. My mother jokes the only time she’s seen me doing neither vas vile hospitalized.”

They all laugh, and Harry bumps her shoulder with his. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

They’re quiet for a moment, just watching each other, when Fleur clears her throat. “Really, though, ‘Arry, I promise you are going to get zrough zis. Ze sree of us will ‘elp you.” She locks eyes with him as she says this, leaving no room for argument. “We can prepare for ze tasks together, and if any of zem are simultaneous, we will protect you when we can zen, too.”

Harry looks to Viktor and Cedric, expecting them to argue or disagree, but they just—nod, fully in agreement. “But—it’s a competition. You’re all supposed to be trying to do the best—not helping me.”

“Of course we all would like to win, and I’m sure we’ll do our best to do so,” Cedric assures him. “But that doesn’t mean we want you to get hurt. And if we really _are _the strongest wizards the three schools have to offer, we should be more than up to being able to compete while making sure you’re okay.”

Krum purses his lips. “It’s the least ve can do. You have three years less schooling than us—and from vat I understand about Britain, that is ven your OWLs and NEWTs are, yes? You’re at a great disadvantage, it is only right that ve do vat ve can.”

The five of them get to their feet, after a moment, making their way back out to the main part of the castle.

It’s only once they turn the corner that they come face to face with Ginny, who looks like she’s pacing somewhat nervously.

She gasps at the sight of them all, heading their way.

To Hermione’s surprise, though, it’s not Harry she moves toward; no, instead she approaches Fleur, looking anxious.

“Hi, Fleur, I—I’m sorry if this is strange, but my name is Ginny, I—”

Before she can speak any further, Fleur presses a hand to her own mouth in shock, eyes widening comically. “No! Ze last time I saw a picture of you, you were missing teeth!”

She throws her arms around Ginny, who looks taken aback by the affection; after a beat Fleur pulls back and beams at her. “Zis is—fate. I was so ‘oping Bill and I might meet, while I was in England; zis is my last year of school, of course, and so if we start seeing each other now I could move ‘ere permanently…I cannot believe it’s you! You must let me take you to lunch, zis weekend. I can’t wait to get to know you.”

Ginny’s mouth curls upward in a smile—a gentle, hopeful one like Hermione hasn’t seen her wear in ages.

“Gin?” Harry asks, eyes flickering between her and Fleur with confusion.

“Right, sorry guys—Fleur is Bill’s soul mate.” She laughs at Harry and Hermione’s shocked expressions. “He’s told us all about her over the years, so when they called her name I just—wow.”

“And you zree are friends?” Fleur clarifies.

“Yes—we’re good friends with both Ginny and Ron, so we spend a lot of time with the family over holidays,” Hermione explains.

Fleur claps her hands together. “ ‘Ow wonderful! Zis is simply—perfect. I am so ‘appy to ‘ave met you all. I must go speak with Madame Maxine, and write to my family to let zem know, but I mean it about lunch zis weekend, Ginny! ‘Arry, ‘Ermione, I expect I will be seeing you soon!”

The three of them make their way back to Gryffindor tower, where the atmosphere is—tense. The common room is full of whispers and side glances Harry’s way, and Hermione encourages him to just go up to bed, try and relax and get some peace away from it all before the chaos of the day to come.

(Naturally, that’s when Ron lashes out.)

/

The following morning she has to forcibly drag Harry to breakfast, as reluctant as he is to face the student body that now collectively assumes the worst of him.

Ron is sandwiched between Dean and Seamus, all the seats near them conveniently taken, and Hermione wants to just, hex him six ways from Sunday.

He likes to claim he’s such a good friend, so loyal and quick to defend Harry, but now his friend needs him more than ever, and _this _is his response?

(It makes her blood boil.)

Halfway through their meal, the hall is filled with whispers, heads turned his way, even some professors eyeing him, and Hermione watches as he just—_snaps_.

Harry jumps to his feet, hands tugging at the mess of his hair. “I did _not _put my name in the Goblet of Fire, nor would I have wanted to!” His raised voice carries throughout the room, the ceilings built to carry acoustics making it as though he’s used a sonorous. “_Literally _give me veritaserum if you all don’t believe me. Fuck this.”

He grabs a muffin from the table and storms off without another word.

_Drama queen_, Draco scribbles on their palms, and Hermione snorts, writing back, _said the pot to the kettle._

Luna comes over, taking Harry’s seat on Hermione’s other side and quietly asking how their weeks are going.

The conversation is halted when the student body collectively groans as a pitch black owl soars inside carrying a fire-truck red Howler; most eyes in the room lock on the envelope, praying it won’t come to them.

Only for them all to be surprised when it’s delivered to none other than Dumbledore.

A bemused expression colors his face; he gently opens the envelope, and the pissed off voice of Andromeda Tonks _pops off_.

_“Albus Dumbledore how DARE you allow this to happen! A fourteen year old in a deadly tournament, on YOUR watch, and you’ve taken no steps to keep him especially safe nor do you intend to—we trust you with our children, and THIS is what you do! I’ll be in your office before the end of the day to discuss what needs to be done to rectify your mistake.”_

Hermione writes, _I can see the family resemblance._

The letter bursts into flames, and the entire hall erupts in quiet chatter, frightened thrill at the Headmaster being reprimanded.

Ginny turns to Hermione with an awed look on her face. “I think I’m in love with Harry’s aunt.”

“She seems pretty badass,” Hermione grins in return. “We called her on the cellphone she and Ted got Harry over the summer this morning to talk through it all, and she’s going to the ministry before coming here to remind them all that she’s the eldest living member of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black and is not afraid to use any of the house’s strength to keep Harry safe. And apparently she has many conveniently located individuals of power who owe her debts she intends to cash in.”

“So he’s in good hands.” Luna smiles, eyes far away. “I can’t imagine why anyone bothered to put his name in—even if they wanted to hurt him, there are much easier ways.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Bit dark there, Lu. Whatever the case, with any luck whatever precautions Andy demands will keep him from being in danger.”

Hermione nods in agreement, but doesn’t get her hopes up.

(Harry’s never had much luck, after all.)

/

/

Draco’s made friends with Fleur, naturally, having approached her with fluent French at dinner one evening; their hushed conversations no one understands has led to a lot of speculation about them potentially having a romantic relationship, which Draco rolls his eyes at but Hermione and Harry both find hilarious, and thus attempt to encourage the rumors.

It’s nice, though, being able to have honest conversations with the guarantee no Hogwarts students can rat him out; he’s explained to Fleur the persona he maintains, that none of it is his idea, and though she’d scowled at the revelation she’s kept his friendship nonetheless.

They’re a month out from the first task, lounging in the RoR—rather, Hermione has a cold and has been coerced by all three boys into resting, swathed in blankets and curled up on the loveseat, as they all bring her tea and tissues as needed.

Blaise is writing up an extra credit assignment for Sprout, while Harry stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“Harry, look at this,” Draco calls with a grin, tossing something small into the other boy’s lap.

Harry burst out laughing at the _Support Cedric Diggory—The REAL Hogwarts Champion _badge in his hands, only to guffaw even louder when the text switches to read _Potter Stinks_.

“I love this—you should show Flitwick, honestly, impressive bit of charms work. Think it’ll be enough to get the Gryffindors to stop rooting for me?”

Draco shrugs. “Figured it was worth a try. And a way for me to meet my father’s standards for Malfoy behavior without having to be a bigoted piece of shit, so.”

Hermione lifts a hand heavily to see the badge, sighing once she’s read it. “I’ll never understand the two of you.”

“Almost makes me miss when they weren’t friends,” Blaise rolls his eyes. “They’re a nuisance when they put their heads together.”

Harry ignores them both completely, joining Draco where he sits, the research he’d used to make the badges before him. “Will you give me a couple? I want to wear one, and I want to give Cedric one as well.”

“I’d say you’ll blow our cover, but you’re just petulant and angsty enough that it’s completely in character.” Hermione shakes her head. “Let’s see how Cedric reacts to that one.”

The next day, Harry does exactly that, saying _“Malfoy made these to heckle me but the joke’s on him, I love them, here’s yours”_—Cedric cracks up, but refuses to put one on until Harry keeps hassling him about it, at which point he relents but charms it to freeze on the _Support Cedric Diggory _side.

“I won’t go around with anti-Potter propaganda,” he scowls at Harry, but ruffles his hair in a brotherly way that makes Hermione smile.

Then they bump into Draco, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, of course, so he does his requisite piece insulting them all, eyes sparkling all the while.

They turn to go, waiting for the tongue twister hex they’d agreed Draco would cast during their next altercation—but then it doesn’t come.

Instead, Professor Moody is there, raging with his wand out, and then _Draco is a ferret_.

It takes everything in her for Hermione not to rush to his side, not to curse the hell out of Moody until he fixes it.

But she holds herself back, clutches onto Harry’s wrist to keep both of them from leaping forward to attack the teacher.

She tries to imagine what she would do if it were someone she really did hate. “Professor Moody, please, there must be a better way—”

He ignores her, continuing to flail her boyfriend’s transformed body around, making her flinch every time the sickening thunk sounds against the ground.

“Alastor!” Professor McGonagall races in and relief floods through Hermione; her ability to breathe slowly returns as Draco’s turned back into a wizard, though he remains on the ground panting for just a beat too long.

But then he lurches to his feet; he’s bruised, and pale, but seems okay—his eyes are cold, closed off in a way that means he’s feeling a million things and suppressing them all.

McGonagall is berating Moody, and he’s pretending to be apologetic, but Hermione’s tuning it all out—

She storms away, Harry right behind her; they pass Ron, laughing with Seamus.

She’s going to walk past him without lashing out, she really is, but then she hears him say, _“serves him right, the git, he has a ferret’s soul.”_

And then she’s spinning on her heel to get in his face. “How _dare _you, Ronald Weasley! It doesn’t matter that Malfoy’s a dick, Moody is a _teacher, _he shouldn’t be harming any student! We’re all _children_! If Snape had done the same you’d all be calling for his removal—it’s despicable!”

Harry tugs on her hand, whispering to encourage her to leave. “Let’s go, Mia, we can get to the room for when he makes it there to check on him.”

Hermione scowls at Ron, and all the rest of the spectators, but relents, a stony look on her face all the way up to the RoR, where Blaise is already waiting.

“Did you see? I heard what happened, figured he’d come here to recuperate away from prying eyes.”

Harry grimaces. “We saw. It was—not great.”

Hermione lets out a whimper, begins pacing the room. “The audacity—to abuse a student like that! And in front of everyone, and—I can’t believe Dumbledore appointed him! It—”

The door opens, and Draco limps inside.

Hermione hurries to him, zeroed in on the arm he’s holding aloft, the knee he’s trying not to put weight on.

“My god, Draco—we need to get you to the hospital wing!”

“No!” He shakes his head vehemently. “Just—Blaise is good at healing spells. Episkey me, will you?”

The only one in the room who doesn’t look surprised at Draco’s refusal, Blaise gets to his feet, performing the charms with a practiced hand. “There. Not perfect, but—best I can do.”

“Thank you.” Draco bends his wrist, testing the range of motion. “You’re getting better at this—I can barely feel anything.”

“Why won’t you just go to the Hospital Wing?” Hermione demands, hands tugging at her hair.

“Madam Pomfrey is required to report any injuries to my father. I won’t have him storming in claiming to care about my well-being, again.”

“Moody broke one of your _bones_, Draco, and dislocated another—he should be removed, even charged! It’s absolutely unacceptable, we should—we should—”  
“Not this time, love. I won’t give my father the satisfaction—and Dumbledore another reason to have a target on my back.”

Harry speaks up, a troubled look on his face. “It’s your decision. But—I don’t trust Moody, anymore, no matter how great an Auror he was. And if Dumbledore doesn’t do anything about it…”

(_I’ll have less faith in him, too, _goes unspoken.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so it turns out im a liar bc champion selection needed its own chapter BUT fastest update yet so it evens out right???  
next chapter will ACTUALLY be first task/yule (im hype) and will also probably be a relatively quick update. as i write im diverting more from canon than i had intended which is weird but im enjoying it, and i hope you are too.
> 
> thank you so much for your continued support!!! i adore you all xo


	10. how we're gonna make it work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I continue to be a liar and each first task and yule needed their own chapter but two chapters at once makes it slightly more acceptable, right?
> 
> thank y’all so much for all of your kind comments—I adore you & am so grateful that you’re enjoying this story. it is becoming so beloved to me in such an unexpected way. 
> 
> also, I love Fleur. in case that isn’t glaringly obvious. that is all.
> 
> also also, Ron continues to be an asshole in the next chapter (bc in my opinion that is the way he acts in a majority of cases) but never fear, he is going to learn from his mistakes & have some character growth in a bit, because as much as I think he’s an ass, he has the potential for becoming a better person.
> 
> unimportant, but when we get there someone remind me I want the song lyric for the title of the first chapter w umbrdige to be ‘guess I’ll see you in hell’ ty much

Hermione’s laughing at the joke Blaise has just told so hard she has to stop walking; she manages to trip while doing so, but Blaise reaches out to brace her just in time to keep her form smacking head first into Ginny.

“Oh, hey!” She grins at the way Blaise straightens up nervously.

(She’s been coercing Blaise into walking with her frequently for exactly this purpose—she’d nearly given up hope that they would actually bump into her, but this moment makes it all worth it.)

Ginny eyes them both, confused by the apparent friendship. “Hi, Hermione. What—uh, what are you up to?”

“Oh, Blaise just started watching my favorite muggle show, and he made a list of which of the doctor’s companion’s each professor was like—it was hilarious. Genius.” Hermione elbows Blaise, who’s statue-still enough to freak her out, and he jerks upright.

“Right, I should, uh—I should be going. Bye, Mia—nice to see you, Ginny.”

He hurries away, and Hermione has to keep herself from growling, muttering _“coward”_ under her breath.

Ginny blinks at her. “What the hell just happened?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Hermione says cheerfully.

“Zabini knows my name? And—you’re friends?”

“Of course! We have Muggle Studies together, and Blaise always wants to know a lot more detail than we go over in class, so we end up discussing a lot—and he’s always doing extra reading, or interacting with aspects of muggle life, so needs someone to discuss with, and of course I’m always excited to be able to talk muggle things.”

Ginny just gapes at her, looking like her entire world has flipped on its axis. “Zabini’s in muggle studies?”

Hermione’s inner matchmaker claps her hands, but she tries to maintain a straight face. “Yes, of course. His family was neutral in the war—strictly for safety purposes, because his mother works with many of the sacred twenty-eights and would have been a target if they knew she supported the movement against Voldemort. Blaise is the same—keep that quiet, mind you, because a lot of people in his house would target him just as well.”

“Oh.” The younger girl blinks—Hermione can tell she’s trying to acting like this doesn’t affect her, like it’s not something important, but it’s clear that despite house rivalries she’s paid him enough attention for the news to be significant. “Good to know.”

/

When Harry comes back from his late night visit with Hagrid, he’s shaking; no fear on his face, just—numb.

“Dragons, Mia,” he rasps, lying down on the floor rather than taking the open seat beside her. “The first task is dragons.”

She eyes him, trying to figure out if he needs comforting or dark comedic relief; she decides on the latter. “Sometimes I think magic is so different from what muggles think, but days like this I’m convinced we’re just living _Lord of the Rings_ or something. Maybe the second task will be saving Narnia.”

Harry snorts, staring up at the ceiling. “At least then I’d get Turkish Delight.”

“Winky?” Hermione calls, a devilish grin on her face.

The elf in question apparates, looking delighted to be called on. “Yes, Mistress?”

“Whenever you have the time, Harry would apparently _love _some Turkish Delight if possible. And I love that new dress!”

Winky beams at the compliment. “Thank you! I is using my wages for the materials and making it myself, since I is having so much free time. I will be having your food soon, Master Harry!”

She pops away, and Harry halfheartedly glares at Hermione. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

“What the Boy Who Lived wants, he gets,” she mocks, grinning when he tries not to laugh. “Really, though, Harry, we’ll figure this out, yeah? I’ll do some research, I’m sure Sirius will have ideas, and the other champions…we have a week to come up with a plan.”

Not to mention, all of Andromeda’s efforts had been fruitful—a ministry official had been appointed to Harry’s protection, and instructed to intervene in any potentially fatal turn of events during the tournament; furthermore, he’d been given permission to perform a protective charm on his skin that should likewise prevent catastrophic injury.

The next day, he writes missives to the other three asking them to meet on the seventh floor, where Hermione has commissioned a class room through McGonagall for extra study time, citing too much noise in the library now that three schools are using it.

Cedric and Fleur transfigure a few desks into couches, and Viktor pulls a bag of food out of his school bag, shrugging when they all stare at him. “I am friends vith the house elves and they thought ve might vant snacks.”

“I can’t believe this is our life right now,” Harry mumbles under his breath.

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself. After the troll first year, nothing can surprise me when you’re around.”

“The troll was definitely your fault, for the record! I wouldn’t have even been near it if we hadn’t come looking for you. And if you think about it, the basilisk was with you first, too—maybe _you’re _the one with all the bad luck here.”

Hermione bursts out laughing, and all three older students exchange glances like they’re crazy.

“So, I am assuming you wanted to meet because of ze dragons.” Fleur cuts right to the chase, face grim.

Cedric’s eyes widen. “Dragons? What dragons?”

Harry grimaces. “The first task. We have to—fight them, or something. I saw them last night, and Madame Maxine and Karkaroff were both there, so I figured Fleur and Viktor would know.”

“We can’t be expected to _fight _them,” Cedric frowns. “It’s nearly impossible for even the best wizards, except in large groups.”

Hermione nods in agreement. “I said the same. I’ve been thinking about it, and…I think you might just have to get _past _them.”

Viktor starts jotting something down, gears visibly turning. “That vould make much more sense—especially because that is such common theme in vorld mythologies all through history.”

“And your Ministry loves zeir symbolism,” Fleur rolls her eyes. “It would be exactly like sending ze knights to face ze dragon.”

“Cool. So then—how, exactly, does one get past a dragon?” Harry asks, face pinched.

Hermione begins pulling volumes from the library out of her bag. “I have a few ideas, but I think the three of you that have more experience can help determine which are actually plausible.”

(They get to work.)

/

A few days before the task, they’re leaving Moody’s class, and everyone’s raving about what a good teacher he is—how he _knows _the real world, how he’s not afraid to treat them like adults.

In what world is a professor performing the three most illegal curses in a _classroom_, one in which several students have been famously traumatized by the curses in question, a good thing?

Harry and Neville both look shell-shocked as they make their way back to the main part of the castle; she can only imagine what watching the crucio was like for Draco during Slytherin’s DADA session earlier this morning—for any other students with monsters for parents who might’ve had that very curse used against them.

When she and Harry get to the RoR, Draco’s already there, eyes stormy.

“Something about this is _not _right.” He paces back and forth. “There’s trying to seem cool to students, but the things he’s doing are—shocking, even to me. Dumbledore’s really lost it this time, letting him teach.”

“Harry, I think you should tell Sirius.” Hermione bites her lip. “You still have to talk to him about your plan for the first task—he’d want to know about all of this.”

“Yeah, okay,” he sighs, taking off his bag. “I’ll write him now.”

Draco’s eyebrows pull upward. “Why don’t you just floo call?” 

Harry and Hermione both turn to him with blank expressions, and he grimaces. “Sorry, I forget a lot of this is still new to you. But—you’ve used floo powder to travel, yeah? It’s similar, but you only put your head in, and it works like a muggle telephone—or I suppose more like a video chat, since you can see the other person’s face.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “How have we never done this before?”

Hermione moves past him, approaching the fireplace and reaching for the floo powder the room provides as soon as she thinks about needing it. “Tonks residence!”

Harry crouches down beside her, and Draco joins them momentarily, all of them letting out a breath when the cozy living room comes into view.

“Sirius!” Harry calls. “It’s me! Hello?”

Sirius rushes into the room, grinning at the sight of them. “Lovely surprise, pup! And good to see you cousin, kitten.”

“How are you, Sirius?” Harry asks, earning him a fond look from Sirius.

“Bored, of course, but I’m just fine. I’m making Remus bring me lots of books and muggle soap operas to keep busy—which is entertaining _and _irks his sensibilities, so two birds with one stone. But that doesn’t matter—how are you three? How are your plans for the first task coming along?”

Harry grimaces. “We’re thinking I should summon my broom and use that. The twins have been writing Charlie for some tips on dealing with dragons that Cedric, Viktor, Fleur, and I have been studying, so that should help, too.”

“Didn’t you put Hagrid’s monster dog to sleep, first year?” Sirius asks, scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe something like that could work again—help neutralize the dragon as a threat without you getting hurt.”

Draco nods. “I think I know something that could help…”

“Sirius, Professor Moody is a complete _asshole_,” Hermione interrupts, her profanity shocking them all. “He attacked Draco, and today he used the Unforgivables in class.”

“Who did that?” Tonks asks, sidling into view. “Sorry, I just got home.”

“Professor Moody.”

Tonks stands up straighter, her face taking on a serious expression Harry’s never seen her wear. “No. There’s no way. I trained under Moody, followed him during my seventh year internship.” She’s pulling her combat boots back on as she speaks, tugging the jacket she’d just taken off back on. “He would _never_ use Unforgivables in class—nor would he use magic on a student; as much as he hates Lucius, he’s a stickler for rules. Whoever is teaching you is imperiused, or…I don’t know. But that is _not_ him.”

Harry’s eyes go wide, and Hermione and Draco begin discussing rapid fire.

“Is it possible? The man was paranoid, wouldn’t he have—”

“There was that disturbance in August, maybe then he—”

“But wouldn’t Dumbledore have checked? He’s so anal about security, he would want to make sure it was really someone on his side—”

“Moody’s eccentric enough that anything off wouldn’t be seen amiss, though, so he could’ve—”

“Hold on!” Sirius orders, and everyone goes silent. “Tonks, wait, let’s just confirm it first.”

“I don’t need to confirm it, Sirius, Alastor was my mentor, I _know _he wouldn’t do this! He could be imperiused, or confounded, or—”

“Will you just wait _two seconds_ so we can figure out what we’re dealing with? Merlin, and _I’m _the Gryffindor here.” He shakes his head, before turning his gaze back to the fire. “Harry, the map—if it’s something amiss we can see, and if it really is Moody then we can try to counter whatever curse he’s under.”

Harry nods, looking relieved that someone else is taking charge. “Right, yes.” He pulls out the map. “Okay, let’s see—yes, it says Alastor Moody is his office.”

Tonks frowns. “So it’s an imperius then? Right, I’ll be at the castle in five.”

“Wait!” Draco chews his lip, worrying at the ring on his finger. “I’m pretty sure Ravenclaw second years have defense this hour—shouldn’t he be in his classroom?”

Harry opens the necessary fold of the map. “Yeah, I am seeing all the Ravenclaw second years, but—“he purses his lips, looking baffled. “It says Mr. Crouch is with them.”

Hermione narrows her eyes—partially in anger, partially in confusion. “Why on earth would _he _be teaching defense?”

Tonks taps at the fire place. “There’s no way. Barty would think it beneath him, even if Moody asked for a guest lecture of some sort. Not to mention with the Tournament he already has too much on his plate. You’re sure, Harry?”

“Yep, right here—Bartemius Crouch, front and center.”

They’re all quiet for a moment, until Sirius straightens up, eyes full of horror; slowly, he turns to Tonks. “The map doesn’t factor titles or suffixes—we didn’t think to include it in the charmwork. What if—what if it doesn’t mean Senior?”

Tonks’s jaw drops. “You don’t mean…Sirius, that’s impossible.”

“Yes, we all know getting out of Azkaban is impossible, don’t we?” He gives her a dark look. “It’s worth looking into. Terrorizing children is exactly the kind of thing he would do.”

“Hi yes can you please explain,” Harry waves his hand to get their attention. “Feeling clueless over here.”

“Barty Crouch had a son, pup. He was a Death Eater—ended up in Azkaban for crucio-ing someone to insanity. Died not too long after.”

“But if he had somehow escaped…” Draco pales. “And that would explain why he hates me especially—my father claimed imperius and avoided prison.”

“If it is him, he must be holding the real Moody hostage in the office—we have to help him!” Harry leaps to his feet, wand brandished, but Draco motions for him to wait.

“No—who knows who all is in on it? And your dreams—if we take out the pawn, he might just put another in Crouch’s place.”

“I’m not just going to leave my godson at risk with a known Death Eater on the loose, with all the authority of a professor.” Sirius’s voice is practically a roar.

Tonks is unfazed by his anger, blocking his path to the doorway. “If you don’t you’ll be caught and shipped back to Azkaban, and then just where will your godson be? Draco’s right—I think we might have to just—play dumb, until we know what’s going on.” She bites her lip, visibly upset. “As much as I hate to leave Alastor in his hands, he’d kick my ass for saving him at the expense of a tactical advantage. Not to mention for going in without enough intel—it’s practically the first lesson he teaches.”

“So—what, we’re supposed to just go to his class every day and pretend we’re none the wiser?” Hermione asks incredulously. “While he’s holding someone hostage?”

Draco grimaces. “If it means Harry’s safety…what else can we do?”

“I’ll try to get clearance to come to Hogwarts soon,” Tonks promises them all. “To oversee a tournament task—I’ll cite anonymous reports of potential violence, or something similar. I’ll keep an eye on him while I’m around—figure out what we’re dealing with.”

(She comes off as so goofy, most of the time, but the look in her eyes now—Hermione can understand why she’s in a position of authority; how she got the most reputable Auror of all time to agree to take her on, how she’s become the youngest Auror in history.)

“Still—you all need to be on guard,” Sirius orders, pulling his hair into a bun. “If you see anything out of the ordinary, anything suspicious at all—get away, and let us know. I’d rather risk Azkaban than something happening to any of you.”

It makes Hermione’s heart warm, the seriousness in his voice—because he means it.

(He _would_ risk it—and for her, too. He cares enough to.)

(It’s been a long time since she’s felt this able to trust an adult.)

When they end the call, Harry throws himself onto a pile of pillows he’d asked the room to conjure. Voice muffled, he says, “Do you think we’ll ever have a _normal_ year? Can you imagine a year where no one tries to kill us?”

(None of them can.)

/

When the day of the first task arrives, Harry looks like he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep, despite knowing he has every reason to make it out okay.

She begs him to eat a bit of toast and drink some juice, so that his body has something to work with during the coming challenge, and he has privacy, Andromeda having come on campus and demanded he have quarters of his own for privacy and a good night’s rest before the task.

(She’d also brought her dog, Snuffles, which Hermione thinks is way too risky given the current ministry presence on campus, but it put a smile on Harry’s face and is keeping him calmer than he’s been in weeks, so she can’t really be too upset.)

Fake Moody had pulled Harry aside at one point (they’d used the map on multiple occasions during class to confirm it _was _an imposter) and offered counsel on preparation for the first task—Harry had claimed he had a plan McGonagall was advising him on.

(which, not strictly true, but he figured no Death Eater would want to spend one-on-one time with the Deputy Headmistress to confirm it, and the excuse had saved him from being alone with the guy, so—success.)

They’re in the champions’ tent, and Viktor is the only one who seems entirely unbothered—although Hermione’s attributing that to the three shots of vodka he took twenty minutes ago, handle hidden in the bag sitting at his feet.

Cedric tries to reassure Harry, which she’s pretty sure is a strategy to distract himself, but—whatever works.

“You have a plan, and we all know you’re a strong flyer. And you can take as long as you need, Harry—you’re not worrying about being the fastest, or the best. You just have to get through this, yeah?”

Harry nods, taking deep breaths. “I—yeah. Right. I can do this. Maybe.”

Fleur smiles confidently. “You are going to be _brilliant, _‘Arry. We can ‘ave a celebratory dinner tonight for us all.”

As soon as Harry is no longer looking at her, though, she’s reaching a hand out to Viktor, taking a long pull of the liquor he hands over.

Hermione gives them both a look, but they just shrug in response.

(She can almost hear the _you got to do what you’ve got to do to get through it_ that goes unspoken.)

“Maybe what you all need is refocusing. The three of you entered voluntarily, right? What are you all hoping to do if you win?”

Cedric clears his throat. “I’d like to put some of it aside for Theo and I’s children. I hope to go into teaching, so I’ll never make much, and we’re fairly certain Theo’s parents will disinherit him once we get married, so…I just want to know whatever else they’re up against, they’ll always have everything they need. And the rest I’d like to use for a scholarship—there’s a fund that was started a decade or so ago, for Hogwarts students who’ve been disowned, for whatever reason—I guess when our parents were in school, there were several occasions of students being kicked out and abandoned by their families. I’ve gotten lucky—my parents are incredibly loving, so I don’t think anything I ever do will cost their respect. But knowing Theo’s parents will probably never speak to him again, will never want to know our kids…it’s shit. And he’s one of the lucky ones—that won’t even be till he’s of age and graduated, you know? I just—the scholarship is something that deserves support. I’d like to be a part of that.”

Viktor nods, clapping him on the shoulder in solidarity. “They vill be the most loved children in the vorld.” He turns back to the group. “I hope to help my family and get a mastery vith the vinnings—there are not often scholarships, and ve have no money outside of vat I earn from Quidditch. My father has alzheimer’s, and my mother had a back injury and can no longer vork her factory job, so my paychecks go to help them care for my younger siblings—there are four of them.” He smiles as he mentions them—it’s clear they’re close, and he doesn’t sound at all resentful of the situation. “Vile playing helps, Bulgaria is not…the most giving of teams. The prize vould allow the four of them to have much more, the proper medical care my parents need—and for my mastery, I hope. Especially the prestige—many have assumed I pay others to do my classvork, because I am an athlete. Even if I don’t vin, I hope the tournament vill prove my qualifications.”

Hermione nods in understanding, squeezing his hand before she turns to Fleur, who gives a small smile. “I am ‘oping to start a—nonprofit, I believe you call it in English. For zose who are not all-wizard to ‘ave resources; I especially want to subsidize ze cost of wolfsbane potion—it is _criminal _zat such a potion exists, and is not accessible for almost ze entire affected population, in every country. And ze unemployment crisis for zose who are classified as part creature—” she blushes at catching herself going off on a tangent. “I am very invested in zese matters. I intend to go into policy, to try to change zese structures, which is also why I entered, because without ze prestige no one will take me seriously.”

Harry meets Hermione’s eyes, looking stunned. “You—er, you’re very passionate about this, then? I’ve never known anyone so invested in the cause of helping werewolves—which, me and Hermione are, too!” he hastily assures her. “Just…how did you get into it all?”

“Well, I am sure you all know I am part Veela,” she rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed at the media’s portrayal of her lineage. “Of course, everyone believes it is wonderful, because I ‘ave just enough in my blood to be beautiful, and have a smaller version of ze attraction spell zat is not dangerous.

“But my grandmother and my mother are obviously very different. And ze way zat people treat zem, ‘ow rights are taken away on the grounds of them not being _‘uman_.” She clenches her teeth, livid. “It is _despicable_. I spent my ‘ole child’ood watching as zey were disenfranchised—and zen when there _are _resources to ‘elp zem limit ze influence of Veela nature, zey are made extremely expensive and difficult to procure. Zey cannot win—ze world simply does not want zem to be treated like people.

“And so I ‘ave been doing research, and involved in rights organizations for years, where I began meeting many werewolves—and zeir treatment is even worse. I am fluent in five languages, but I do not have words to express it. Zey are criminalized with no recourse, and…well. It is an issue very close to my ‘eart.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Hermione can feel her heart absolutely full with love for these three people that have come into her life, somehow. “Whether you win or not, I believe I know some people who will be interested in investing…and I know an extremely qualified werewolf who would love to join your fight.”

(Harry’s eyes are wide with awe, so full of hope for this mission to come to fruition.)

And it’s—they all have such noble causes, and surely everyone else who entered the tournament did, too.

(There is so much love in the world, even on the most horrible days.)

And how awful that these wonderful people who want nothing more than the make the world a better place have to exploit themselves for a chance at getting the means to do so—have to risk their lives for the entertainment of wealthy old men who should _know _better.

(Because there must be donors, surely, where else would the prize money come from?)

“It’s time,” Dumbledore’s voice announces, as he steps into the tent.

_(Speak of the devil.)_

They all huddle up, and Dumbledore begins speaking, before he pauses upon noticing her. “Miss Granger, what one earth are you doing here?”

She can see all four champions about to demand she be allowed to stay, but it’s not worth the fight, there’s nothing else she can do from here, anyway. “Sorry, Professor, I—”

She grabs Harry into a bone tight hug. “You’re going to be _fine_. Aunt Andy, Snuffles, and I are rooting for you—and we’ll intervene if anything goes south, yeah?” She pulls back, smiling at the four of them. “Good luck!”

She makes her way to the stands—the close ones, where Andromeda had demanded to be, mere yards from the action.

Percy Weasley is there, siting at Mr. Crouch’s elbow; he smiles when they lock eyes, but doesn’t do anything more to indicate they know each other.

“Coward,” Hermione mutters to herself as she takes her seat. “Gryffindor, my ass.”

Andromeda reaches to hug her when she sits, despite having seen her just this morning. “Hello, darling. How’s our boy doing?’

“He’s okay. More nervous than he needs to be, of course, but the others are all trying to keep him calm.” She eyes Sirius in his animagus form, pacing back and forth before them. “He’s going to be _fine_, Snuffles. Relax before someone says we need to remove the mangy mutt.”

He growls but then sits in front of her, dropping his head into her lap.

She rolls her eyes but begins petting him like he wants, nodding to Andromeda’s raised eyebrow.

“What are the rest of them planning? I need to know who to place my bets on,” Andy insists, tucking her green and silver scarf tighter.

Hermione purses her lips. “Fred and George already tried to ask me the same—I told them it was morally objectionable.”

“It’s gambling, darling, it’s all morally objectionable.”

“You have a fortune at your grasp, regardless—what do you need to gamble for anyway?”

Her eyes sparkle. “It’s all about the thrill, love. And any day I can do my part to frustrate these old bags is a good one.”

Behind them are, of course, the members of the Board of Governors—Lucius Malfoy among them.

(Hermione shrinks at the sight of him, though he has no reason to pay her much attention.)

“Oh, what if I make bets against Barty? We could ask Winky to retrieve the winnings…she would love that,” Andy speculates, mouth curving upward.

Hermione smiles begrudgingly. “She would. Alright, well—I personally think Cedric’s idea has the most potential, although they’re all to have different breeds of dragon, which will really affect how successful the methods they’re planning will work. Fleur’s is, I think, most likely to be effective regardless, although I believe Viktor’s will allow for the most speedy win _if _the type of dragon enables him to be successful.”

Andromeda hums, before getting up to go place her wagers—the sight of her instigating in the midst of so many shady politicians brightens Hermione’s mood tenfold.

After a glance around to make sure no one is paying her close attention, she pulls a pen out of her bag and puts it to her wrist, writing, _your father is here—just three rows away from me_.

(They’ve recently learned vanishing and cleaning spells, allowing them to write in a variety of circumstances they previously had to worry about having time to manually wash off the writing.)

_It brings me more joy than it should to imagine his reaction if he were aware the girl with more prestigious seats than him is his muggle-born future daughter in law_, Draco replies.

She feels everything from her neck up flush at the implications—they’ve discussed the permanence of their relationship before, of course, but Draco putting it into words like that makes it feel _real_.

(_Lucius Malfoy is her future father in law._)

Snuffles barks at her red face, and she shoves at his muzzle with a palm.

“Oh, shut up, you. Just because you and _your _guy are happy and stable doesn’t mean you get to tease me.” He tilts his head at her, cocking an ear, and she grins. “I think I like you best when you can’t reply.”

The band begins to play, and Andromeda hurries back to their seats; she has a lackadaisical grin plastered on, but in her eyes Hermione can see her own fear and worry reflected back at her.

Cedric is up first; he transfigures a boulder into a dog—Andromeda starts making comical remarks about dragons having a taste for canines, which Sirius makes it clear he is _not _a fan of.

It distracts his dragon for just long enough—he loses points for receiving an injury, but he’s retrieved his egg in incredible timing, and he doesn’t look too bothered as he waits for his scores, Madam Pomfrey hastening to tend to the burn.

Fleur is next—she enchants several smaller rocks and debris from the arena to fly near the dragon and overwhelm its senses, simultaneously maintaining a drowsiness charm that slowly lulls the dragon to near-sleep, as she sneaks the long way around slowly. Her time is longer than Cedric’s, but she’s entirely unscathed so she comes out with the same score.

Then Viktor emerges—right off the bat he uses a Conjunctivitis curse, which sends his dragon into a rage. The audience murmurs at the sight—and the inadvertent test of the magical barriers in place.

He then begins levitating dirt from the arena floor and attaching it to himself with sticking charms—and Hermione _beams_. She can hear all the officials behind her muttering, wondering aloud what the hell he’s thinking; Snuffles looks up at her with what she’s _sure _is a grin, because he sees it too—_Viktor is masking his scent_.

He sneaks right past the blinded dragon, retrieving his egg significantly faster than either champion before him, looking bashfully excited when he’s awarded the highest scores yet.

“Of course Harry’s going last,” Hermione groans, antsy in her seat, while Andromeda bounces an anxious leg beside her.

Harry emerges looking pale, and terrified in a way only a few could decipher from his face.

But then he summons his broom, the way Fleur had suggested after the four of them had played a Quidditch scrimmage one day, and as soon as his hand meets the stick his entire being calms.

And then he just—waits; sits there, on the edge of the arena, seemingly lost in thought.

Andy and Hermione both burst out laughing, while the Gryffindor stands (previously so quick to shame him, but desperate to cheer him on now that he has the potential to succeed) are in an uproar.

“What a sweet boy. He’s on a mission not to win, then?” Andy smiles fondly, shaking her head at the sight.

“Yes—not that he would, anyway, as he’s well aware, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t get more points than anyone even on accident. Insisted it wouldn’t be fair, anyway, since he has the extra precautions in place—which, the other three argued were only making the playing field level, being that he hasn’t had OWLs or NEWTs yet, but….well, you know he’s stubborn.”

“Just like his father, that one.”

Sirius barks in agreement, and the comment makes Hermione’s heart warm—_his parents are gone, but they’re still with him._

Eventually, when they timer has indicated over five minutes more than Fleur took have passed, Harry flies forward, all the attention that had drifted away during the wait jerking back to him. The dragon has its eyes on him—moves to block him repeatedly, until Harry eventually feints and does an intricate maneuver the two-ton creature isn’t dexterous enough to replicate.

The score he receives is truly better than he deserves, but less than that of all the other competitors so he grins nonetheless.

(It’s not till after the mini-press conference, which he sneaks out early from via Invisibility Cloak, that it hits him—when he and Hermione are in the empty classroom dedicated to the Champions, waiting on the other three, that the adrenaline fades and he crashes.)

When the others arrive, though practically walking on clouds of elation at the buzz of victory and excitement they immediately collapse upon sitting down.

“That was…”

“_Exhausting_,” Fleur finishes for Cedric, eyes closed. “Viktor, I cannot _imagine _‘ow you endure zat kind of pressure and spotlight all ze time during Quidditch—and ze World Cup! Merlin. My respect for you ‘as tripled.”

“To be fair, during Quidditch you do not face down a dragon that vants to kill you for coming near their eggs.” He grimaces. “And anyvay, now comes the _real _challenge, and I am dreading it but I know you vill both excel.”

“You’re not excited for the ball, Viktor?” Cedric teases with a raised eyebrow.

Harry falls off the couch he’d been lying on, eyes wide. “The _what_, now?”


	11. in wonderland

Harry had mentioned in passing that he was worried about finding a date for the Yule Ball—apparently, McGonagall had made it clear to him all of the champions were traditionally expected to have one and lead the first dance.

He’d immediately asked Hermione, of course, but Viktor’d already beat him to the punch.

(Which, for the record, she wanted to say no to, knowing all the attention and gossip would fuel, but Draco had emotionally blackmailed her into agreeing, so here she is.)

Still, by the time she sees what he’s about to do, there’s no time to intervene—all she can do is face palm, cringing as she turns to Fred and George from her seat at a common room table. “Oh, god—this is about to go so poorly.”

Fred follows her gaze. “What’s he doing?”

“I believe he’s about to ask _Parvati _to the _ball_.” She cringes just saying it aloud.

George’s jaw drops, eyes bright with laughter. “You’re kidding. Has he had a head injury?”

“He’s just genuinely that clueless.”

Across the room, she hears Harry stutter out the words; she’s almost proud of him for working up the courage, but under the circumstances…she grimaces.

Parvati and Lavender both burst into laughter, but they peter out when they realize he’s not joking.

“Is he actually serious?” Parvati turns to Lavender in shock.

Lavender raises an eyebrow. “I think he is. Tragic, really—I’d hate to hex his pretty face.”

“Er, sorry, am I missing something?” 

Hermione winces, watching him look back and forth between the two of them.

“I’m wondering the same thing—Harry, what on earth would possess you to ask my girlfriend out right in front of me?”

He blinks at Lavender. “I—you’re dating?”

“For months!” Parvati exclaims. “Harry, you’ve sat next to us at Quidditch matches while we held hands the entire time.”

“Yes, I suppose, but—"

“We all watched that muggle moving picture on Dean’s screen-typewriter thing and Lav and I cuddled on the loveseat.”

He blushes. “I thought that was just what girls do with their friends!”

George bursts out laughing, drawing Harry’s attention to him. “Blimey, Harry, now you sound like Rita _Skeeter_. Just ‘gals being pals!’, are they?”

Harry collapses onto the couch. “Did everyone know this but me?”

“We have eyes, so yes,” Fred says.

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Not to mention we’re roommates and they share a bed most nights. Harry, I love you, but you’re really the most oblivious person in the world. I think I could dye my hair fire-engine red without you noticing.”

Lavender and Parvati slink out of the room, whispering to themselves, and Hermione climbs onto the couch next to Harry, stealing half of his throw blanket and scooting close to him.

“I think it’s really for the better, Harry. Ginny wants to go to the ball, but can’t unless she’s an older student’s date, and Blaise was hoping you might take her so that he knows she’s safe and has a good time.”

“Overprotective bastard,” Harry grins. “That sounds fun, actually. I’d have a way better time hanging out with Ginny than someone I don’t even know who just wants a date with the champion.”

“And then we can scheme to set them up,” Hermione bumps his shoulder with hers. “I’m thinking I come to steal you away for a dance, and then he swoops in to save the day.”

“Are you going with him, then?”

Hermione scowls, but a blush alights her cheeks. “No, actually I’m—Viktor’s asked me.”

“And you said _yes_?” Harry gapes. “I mean—that’s exciting, of course, and Viktor’s great, but—you hate being the center of attention!”

She huffs. “Yes, well, my loving boyfriend said if I turned down a once-in-a-lifetime date with the Quidditch idol he’s looked up to since he was ten he’d break up with me, so here we are. Viktor knows it’s just as friends, though—and I don’t really think he’s looking for anything more, anyway.”

Harry cracks up. “Your boyfriend is the best. I’m glad you’re soul mates so we get to keep him around forever.”

“Glad his emotional blackmail is bringing you two closer together,” Hermione says dryly, rolling her eyes. “I can’t wait till you find your soul mate and I can give you hell.”

(Even she has no idea how much.)

/

She heads upstairs as soon as Ancient Runes lets out, only to blink in surprise upon opening the door.

Usually, when Draco sends a hurried missive asking to meet in the RoR, he’s just missing her, or has a surprise of sorts.

But this time, Blaise and Harry are there too, and Draco’s eyes are stormy—the worry is visible in the hard set of his face.

“Has something happened?” she asks softly, taking one of Draco’s clenched fists into her hand and rubbing circles across its back.

“No. Yes. Er—not yet, but probably soon.” He’s as frazzled as she’s ever seen him, gaze far away.

“His mother’s written,” Blaise explains. “She—her Mark. It’s getting darker.”

Harry purses his lips. “Sorry, muggle-raised here—what does that mean?”

“When You-Know—Voldemort was in power, all of his followers had the Dark Mark burned onto their arm—the symbol you saw at the World Cup.” Draco’s voice is raspy as he explains. “He could use it to summon them. After you—he—when he died, the marks faded permanently. But lately…it’s been getting darker.”

“So that means…what? He’s back?”

Draco shrugs. “We have no idea. My mother doesn’t know either. But—she said we should be prepared, just in case. If somehow he is coming back…”

“I’ll be first on his list. Fantastic.” Harry scowls, looking put out but entirely unfazed. “Winky?”

She appears immediately, Hermione having asked her to assist Harry as well as needed for an additional wage (which she had convinced Hermione to pay her in the awful knit hats she’s taken to wearing constantly, emotionally overcome at her mistress taking the time to knit clothes just for her).

“Master Harry is calling?”

“Hi, Winky—if you have a minute, could you please bring me a chocolate cheesecake?”

Winky raises an eyebrow. “Fine. But only if Master Harry agrees to eat some protein and vegetables too—I is watch yous, mister, and yous is not taking care of yourself.”

“Yes, Winky.” He smiles at the mothering as she pops away, before turning back to his three blank faced friends. “What? If I’m going to die anyway, I might as well go a little wild with sugar while I can.”

“Or—crazy idea, I know, but maybe instead we try to _stop you from dying_.” Blaise is unamused, rubbing at his face.

Draco likewise rolls his eyes. “This is why we don’t hang out with Gryffindors.”

“Ridiculous, the lot of you.” Hermione shakes her head at all three of them. “I expect this is when we call Sirius so he can freak out about your safety, then?”

Blaise gets to his feet hurriedly. “Would you look at the time—so sorry, seems like I have to be somewhere, tell me how it goes!”

“Don’t leave me alone with the three of them, you bastard!” Draco hisses, throwing a pillow at Blaise’s back as he leaves.

/

They’re outside the door, waiting on the cue for their grand entrance; Hermione’s pretty sure most people would envy her, all four champions focused on her, trying to keep her calm while her anxiety ramps up at the thought of dancing in front of the hundreds of people currently inside the Great Hall.

And they’ve been hanging out for almost an hour—McGonagall asked them to come early, just in case, had them set up in a sitting room they hadn’t known existed, and it’s literally some of her favorite people of the world here: Harry _did_ bring Ginny, and Theo is here with Cedric, of course; the biggest surprise was Fred coming with Fleur, half so they could each get to know a future in-law better, and half because, in Fred’s words, _“maybe the rumors about me and a French champion who’s part veela will be enough to irk Oliver into going public about us_”.

(She’d chastised him for antagonizing his boyfriend, but to no avail.)

Fleur brought champagne transfigured to look like pumpkin juice for those of them underage, which is honestly helping Hermione calm down, the dulled inhibitions making it hard for her to remember why she’d been so terrified in the first place.

(And she’s surrounded by friends, and love, and Draco and Blaise are through the doors, and—it seems like things will be good.)

McGonagall comes back, asking them to line up to head inside. She eyes them for a moment, then sighs. “Do _attempt_ to act sober, will you?”

Fred winks cheekily. “Will do—thank you, Minnie.”

“Sirius Black all over again,” she mutters under her breath. “Very well, then. If you need anything, I’ll be near the ministry corner with Filius and Poppy. _And a hell of a lot of firewhiskey_.”

They’re not meant to hear the last bit, spoken to herself as she moves to open the doors, but it has them all mid-laugh when they come into view of the student body.

Theo regains his bearings most quickly, tucking Cedric’s hand through his arm and putting on a dazzling smile as they lead the way. Fleur follows suit, though Hermione can see Fred cracking jokes through his teeth, so a laugh escapes the blonde every few steps.

She and Viktor aren’t natural at all, of course, both so entirely out of their element despite Viktor’s years as a Quidditch star; halfway down the procession she catches Draco’s eye, and just—tunnel vision.

(He always looks at her like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen, but in this moment….)

(It’s something else entirely.)

He presses a hand to his mouth, covers his expression from view, but his eyes are shining at the sight of her.

(Unbeknownst to her, the hand is pressed to his mouth because he’s otherwise physically incapable of hiding his awe.)

Luna is smiling brightly at his side, having been delighted when he asked her to be his date—as Hermione had been, too, knowing anyone else would’ve been a little too eager to spend the evening with the _“debonair eligible bachelor set to inherit one of the greatest fortunes in wizarding history”._

(The article that had labeled him as such had been the first strike Rita Skeeter didn’t know she’d committed.)

When they come to a stop at their place on the dance floor, Hermione turns her head back to look at Harry and Ginny; while Harry is bashful, a timid smile at the crowd on his face, Ginny is thriving, taking the attention in stride like she was born to do it.

(Hermione glances at Blaise out of the corner of her eye and swears he’s choked up at the sight.)

She’s not much for dancing, most times, but she and Viktor start whispering, making fun of themselves, and she’s tipsy enough to let herself really enjoy it.

At one point near the end of the first dance they make eye contact, and it—seems more emotional, on his end. She’d clarified that they were just going as friends, but what if he—

“Viktor, I’m so glad to have come with you tonight, but I just wanted to—make sure we’re on the same page that we’re just friends, because I—”

“I know you have boyfriend,” he says with a smirk. “I don’t know who he is, but your glamour last veek vas not the best—and that vas not the first time.” He tilts his head toward her neck—which had been adorned in hickeys the week before, resulting in frequent glamours and Harry giving Draco a lot of shit.

“I—oh.” Hermione turns scarlet. “Well then. That saves me from coming up with an excuse, I suppose.”

“It vorks perfectly, because I am not hoping to see anyone right now—I really vant to focus on the tournament, and then professional Quidditch for a few years and then the mastery, as you know,” Viktor explains. “I am grateful to have gained a friend more than I expected.”

She beams at him. “I’m grateful for you, too. You _must _write me when you go back to Bulgaria, or I’ll drag Harry and Cedric with me to come bother you there. We’ll pick up Fleur on the way.”

“You are all velcome to visit—but yes, I promise to write.” His eyes twinkle. “Maybe by then the secret boyfriend vill not be a secret and he can come too.”

“I wish,” she says wistfully, catching herself staring off in the distance over his shoulder.

At one point, George and Daphne make their entrance, sending both Gryffindor and Slytherin extremists into shambles.

But they’re both smiling, looking at each other like there’s no one else in the room, entirely unbothered by the ruckus of their housemates.

(Hermione finds Draco’s gaze—_I hope that’s us one day_. She knows they’re both thinking it.)

Harry practically sprints away from the dance floor as soon as is socially acceptable for a champion to do so, dragging Ginny with him, laughing loudly. Viktor follows Harry’s lead with a grin, looking beyond relieved that they can stop dancing without being the first to do so.

She wraps her arms around Ginny, and the younger girl squeals excitedly.

“Can you believe we’re here, ‘Mione?”

And it almost brings Hermione to tears, because—no, she really can’t. They’ve both gone through so much the last few years—she knows there have been so many times they both didn’t think they’d even make it this far in the first place.

(But they _have_\--and now they’re at a historic ball, with Tournament champions and surrounded by their friends that have become family, and they’re both _happy_, and it’s—she never would’ve thought it possible, so many times.)

“Let’s go say hi to George and Daphne,” Hermione says, linking her fingers with Ginny’s and heading toward the pair.

Daphne looks stunning in a skin-tight silver dress, with a scarlet ribbon around the waist precisely matched to the corsage on her wrist. Her fingers are interlocked with the hand George has around her shoulder, looking the most calm Hermione’s ever seen him, sitting on the table with a content smile.

“Hey Hermione, Gin. You two know Daph, yeah?”

Hermione greets her politely, and then the blonde and Ginny get into a discussion of the band playing--apparently a popular wizarding band neither of them is particularly fond of, and so Hermione inches closer to George.

“My two best girls bonding,” he smiles, eyes glazed over.

Hermione snorts. “How drunk off your ass are you?”

“Not that bad, actually--why, you want some?” he edges a flask out of his jacket.

Hermione hesitates but then caves, leaning in to steal it for a couple swigs before tucking it back inside his pocket.

“I saw that.” Blaise’s voice is teasing as he comes up behind her, leaning in to give her a hug. “You look stunning, Granger. I daresay a certain _someone _won’t be able to keep from ravishing you after this—especially now that the whole school won’t stop talking about you and Viktor Krum being an item.”

She grins devilishly. “He’s just jealous enough for it to work to my advantage. You look quite spiffy yourself, by the way. What are you doing over here?”

“Had to come chat with Weasley, of course—Daphne and I are close, and I haven’t had the chance to interrogate him yet.”

“Don’t hassle my boyfriend, Zabini, or I’ll magic sand into your sheets for the next month.” Daphne’s smiling, though, and she moves from under George’s arm to wrap Blaise in a hug. “Thanks for being willing to face the rest of the house’s wrath to come say hi.”

“Of course.” His face grows serious. “You know I’m always in your corner. _Especially _when it pisses off the pretentious racists. Although I think a lot more of our house is supportive than you or I predicted.”

Ginny is still beside Daphne, very clearly watching Blaise but attempting to seem as though she’s not doing so.

“Yes, well, the few that aren’t will be the loudest voices, I’m sure.”

“We’ll get through it,” George assures her, twirling a lock of her hair with a practiced hand. “Which, by the way, Fred and I have a bet on whether Mum will send a Howler or not if anyone wants in.”

Ginny snorts. “You know Ron will come over and make a scene before Mum ever has a chance.”

“Good point. Let’s roll before he can, Daphne! Hermione, best of luck facing his fury.” George salutes before helping Daphne to her feet clumsily, and the two of them hurry out a back door Hermione hadn’t even known existed.

Hermione scowls in their wake, before turning her head back to the two friends she’s with.

Blaise swallows nervously, and Hermione gives him a _do it_ gesture that urges him to turn to Ginny. “Ginny, you look…beautiful. I—” he scrambles, and Hermione has to hold in a smile at the sight of the most sure of himself person she knows at a loss for words.

Ginny, for her part, looks taken aback—she blushes at the compliment, not meeting his eyes. “I—thank you. You too.”

“I look beautiful?” he teases, regaining his usual air.

But Ginny doesn’t stutter, or back down—she lifts her chin and meets his gaze coolly. “Yes. You do.”

Hermione can almost see Blaise growing more enamored at the challenge—_this_, this is why they’ll be good for one another.

“Well, thank you. I suppose since we’re both so fit it’s only right that we dance together, make everyone else jealous?” He reaches a hand out in offering, expression dazzling, but Hermione can see the nerves behind his eyes.

(The way he’ll feel sucker punched if she says no.)

She decides to assist before Ginny can get spooked. “Oh yes, perfect! I’ll find Harry and we can all get in one dance together before he heads home.”

Ginny narrows her eyes at her—she knows Hermione well enough to know she has no desire to join the masses in sweaty movement in such close proximity—but in all reality, she _does _want to dance, and she must trust that Hermione has her reasons, because she acquiesces, placing her hand in Blaise’s.

Hermione watches them make their way to a dance floor—Ginny cracks a joke at some point, exactly the kind of thing she does whenever she’s nervous, but she seems to relax at the sound of his laughter.

She tracks down Harry, at a table in the corner with Ron; Harry looks exhausted at so much attention, sipping at what she suspects is coffee despite the late hour.

Ron, meanwhile, is fuming—his eyes grow dark when she approaches. “Done fraternizing with the enemy, are you?”

“Excuse me?” She feels herself flush with anger, crosses her arms—knowing Ron, he has much more to say to piss her off.

“Cozying up with someone trying to beat Harry in a competition that ends in death—what kind of friend are you? And I bet he’s only asked you because he wants dirt on Harry, anyway.”

She has years of practice dealing with Ron’s double standards and righteousness, but this—she feels like she could breathe fire. “That’s absolutely _rich_, coming from you. For your information, when _you_ were off talking shit about Harry and assuming the worst of him before the first task, _Viktor _was helping him strategize and prepare for the first task, and _believing _in him the way his alleged best friend should have.”

“I—”

“I’m not done, Ronald!” She fumes, staring him down as she takes a step closer.

(She knows she’s irrationally upset, but she’s so fucking _tired _of the people who get away with terrible things because they’re “good guys”, “nice guys”, they’re “on the side of right” so they must not _really _ever be the bad guy—it’s Ron, it’s Dumbledore, it’s—)

“I am allowed to go to the ball with _whoever_ I want, and it is _none _of your business! You don’t get to take your frustration out on me because you expected someone you fancy to be your date, you don’t get to make me out to be the bad guy because I didn’t turn down offers just to be your last resort, and somehow _everyone else_ knew that! Your fucking _idol _knew that! _You _are the one in the wrong.”

“Oh, of _course _I am, because _perfect_ Hermione could _never_ do anything wrong! You have no sense of _loyalty_, do you—I saw you over there with Zabini and Greengrass, and my piece of shit brother—I can’t belive you’ve sunk low enough to hang out with _Slytherins_.”

“Oh, _no_, I have no loyalty to made up houses that we’re put into by a fucking _hat—_I’m practically criminal!” Hermione wipes at angry tears. “I am—done with this, Ron. If you ever learn how to be a good friend beyond when it suits you, let me know, but otherwise I am _done _being your emotional punching bag. Have a nice life.”

She storms away, livid that he’s managed to take away from this beautiful night.

(She has so few untainted good memories, she’d hoped this one would go on the list.)

Footsteps follow her, and she braces herself to deal with more fighting—

But it’s just Harry, looking worried and out of breath. “You—you okay, Mia?”

“Yeah, I—I’m fine, Harry.” She takes a deep breath before forcing a smile. “You should go back, or he’ll get angry with you too. Enjoy the rest of the ball.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “If you think I’m leaving you alone right now, you’re crazy. Besides, he…he needs to know he’s in the wrong. This is my way of showing him I’m on your side. I—I’m sorry I didn’t speak up. During the fight, I mean.”

She reaches out to squeeze his hand with understanding. “I didn’t expect you to, Harry. I know conflict is really rough on you—I can’t imagine all the memories that brought back.” She frowns. “I’m sorry for all the screaming.”

(She’d see him flinching, cringing, out of the corner of her eye—has noticed the way he usually recedes into himself, after confrontations occur near him.)

“It’s okay. And you were right, so—someone should tell him. I’m just sorry it had to come at your expense.” He gives her a gentle hug, though he still seems a bit shell-shocked.

“It’s fine. I was more excited for the afterparty anyway.” She grins at him, tugging him towards the Room. “Draco’s sent Dobby to get some snacks, and Winky agreed to get us some firewhiskey—and the twins are coming. George might bring Daphne, too.”

“As long as Blaise comes to poke fun at you and Draco with me.” Harry sighs as they enter, sprawling across the couch. “I can’t wait till Gin is in on it, too. It feels wrong, keeping it from her.”

Hermione grimaces. “I know. She seems to be warming to the idea of Blaise, though, so—soon. As much as I don’t want her in danger…it’ll be such a relief, having her know.”

Draco and Blaise come in a few minutes later, and Draco beelines to her side, pulling her as close to him as is physically possible.

“_You_,” he says, pressing a kiss behind her ear. “Are going to give me a coronary, looking so lovely, with all these men and women think you’re single. I don’t want to compete with French wizards and witches for your affection!”

“Aren’t _you_ French?” Harry interrupts, laughing at the glare of contempt Draco sends his way.

“Not the point! Don’t undermine my compliments to my witch, prick.” He drops another kiss on Hermione’s bared shoulder.

She hums with contentment, leaning into him. “You’re not competing with anyone, and you know it. Besides, you looked amazing yourself—I had to resist the urge to hex Susan Bones for staring too long.”

“Knowing Susan, she was just imagining all the political aspirations they could achieve together.” Blaise stretches as he provides the commentary. “She’s not interested in romance, as far as I’ve seen.”

“Of _course _you’re friends with her—is there anyone you don’t know?” Harry demands, exasperated.

“Sorry, Potter, we can’t _all _get the whole school to hate us on a regular basis.”

Eventually, after Harry and Blaise have headed off to bed and they’re just tipsy enough, Hermione cuddles into Draco’s chest.

“What happened to Luna, anyway? Did she not want to come by after?”

“No,” he shakes his head, his speech vibrating against the top of her head. “I tried to convince her, but she said Harry is probably already feeling overwhelmed enough with all of this, the last thing he needed was a new person in what serves as his safe space. And then she started mumbling about timing, and fate, so I didn’t argue anymore.”

“Hmm…she has a point, really. I wish she had been here, though. I feel like I’ve hardly seen her this year.”

“To be fair, you’ve been a bit preoccupied making world famous friends and attempting to keep our favorite idiot alive.”

A laugh bursts from her. “This is true. Viktor knows about us, by the way—well, not that you’re you, but that you exist. That I have a boyfriend, I mean.”

Draco smiles, but tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with concern at her scattered speech. “You sound tired, love—I can walk you back to your dorm if you’re ready for bed.”

“No, I—I want to sleep here.” She yawns, but tightens her grip on his back. “We can ask the room for a bed instead. I want to wake up with you, for once. And…” she swallows heavily, before pressing her lips to his.

He responds immediately, the motion familiar and a practiced kind of smooth.

She mentally asks the room to transform the couch into a bed, and it does so beneath them, as she similarly asks for a chain on the entryway—not that anyone who knows about the room would be coming in anytime soon, but just in case.

She’s pulling him closer, moving them onward, and then both their shirts are off, and she’s leaning backward in the practiced way that gets him on top of her, and it’s not till her hands are tugging at his shorts that he understands how far she wants this to go.

“I’m—on the potion,” she breathes, mouth at the side of his jaw. “Please, Draco.”

“You—you’re sure?” he checks, pulling back to meet her eyes as he asks.

(Her wizard is so, so perfect—cares so much, always makes sure she never doubts he loves her.)

(She’s rarely been more sure of anything than wanting him, wanting this—wanting to choose him, wanting the feel of him to cover up the bad memories, wanting his touch to be the only thing in the world.)

(Wanting this to be the only way she knows it.)

“Please,” is all she says, pressing herself closer to him.

He lets out a shaky breath of relief before kissing her like nothing else—like he’s been restraining himself for her benefit.

And it’s—wonderful, in the most complicated way.

So different, so _good _when it’s something she wants, when it’s her and Draco—when she knows she’s safe against his skin.

(Her mind can’t wholly believe it—in some moments it reminds her of darker moments, of other hands, and she tries to fight back the memories.)

At one point, she has to ask him to stop—something is too close, too similar to it all, and she has to look away, breathe until she reminds herself of where she is, who she’s with. But then she resumes, and it’s—incredible (and terrible).

(It’s this beautiful moment, this amazing memory, but it’s tainted with the fear at the back of her head, the memories she works so hard to tamp down every day.)

She’s quiet, after—glad to have done it, happy to know him in that way, now, but unable to push back the tide of pain that comes with the territory.

(He doesn’t ask; he must know it wasn’t her first time, there’s no way he couldn’t have noticed, but he knows her well enough to know she doesn’t want to talk about it right now.)

So he just lets her be, holds her tight, trusts her and loves her. He occasionally presses a kiss to her hair, limbs remaining tangled up with hers as his breathing deepens.

It’s not until he falls asleep that she lets herself cry—silently, so as to keep from waking him.

She’s so _frustrated; _she should be able to have sex with her boyfriend—her soul mate—and fully enjoy it. Draco deserves better than for his hands to remind her of something so awful _(someone so awful)_. He is—everything good in this world.

(She’ll do whatever it takes to associate him with nothing less.)

She berates herself, is filled with guilt and shame and frustration; she struggles to sleep, the few hours she does get filled with nightmares.

But when she whimpers, jerking awake from one, Draco is there—still asleep, but holding her tighter in his sleep, wrapped around her like he’ll protect her from all the world.

(Even exhausted, she knows she’s safe with him.)

And when he wakes, his fingers stroke along her skin softly—not seeking anything, just wanting contact with her shoulder, her waist, her spine.

Hermione rolls over to face him—watches him frown when he sees the bags under her eyes.

She kisses him—wishes something so small could convey everything she doesn’t have the words to say. Wishes it could mean everything he deserves.

“Morning, Juliet,” he says softly, pride blooming in his chest when her cheeks flush at the nickname.

(He’s worried by the hollow look in her eyes, the out of character quiet.)

(But his girl is in there, he knows.)

“You okay, love?”

She hums in response, pressing her face into his neck to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

“Just you,” she whispers against his skin. “I love you, you know? So much.”

“I know,” he promises.

(Because he knows she isn’t saying it to hear it back, right now—she’s saying it to confirm, to make sure he understands how very much she cares about him.)

(Whatever else they’re up against—whatever demon it is she’s fighting within herself right now—they’re together.)

(It’s the only thing that feels like it matters.)


	12. who is in control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank y’all for your continued kindness + love for this story—I truly deserve none of it and every single comment brings me so much joy I literally cannot put it into words.
> 
> the further we get in this story the more different ideas and plot threads come together and I’m just so excited that we’ve made it this far.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER: Christmas break + second task. not a ton of D/H, but the next installment will have a surplus
> 
> alternative chapter title: Fleur is a mf queen

Hermione and Harry lay on their backs across from each other, sprawled across the seats on opposite sides of the train car.

“Can you imagine if you’d told us a year ago this is where we’d be?” Harry grins at her. “It’s Christmas and I’m _happy _to be going home. And you’re coming _with _me. And we can eat whatever is in the kitchen whenever we want and we’ll be able to _sleep _at home. I’ll never get used to it—I wake up every morning expecting to be back under the stairs.”

It’s so brutally honest; the kind of thing he can’t say to anyone else, because they’d be horrified.

(But he and Hermione have always understood each other—understood the light that gets one through the darkness.)

“Honestly that’s how I feel most days at Hogwarts,” she agrees. “We’ll be old and grey and I still won’t believe it’s real.”

Harry turns onto his side to face her. “You know they won’t kick us out, right? I—I feel like that’s part of why you work so hard, why you don’t let yourself have any off days. But unless you plan on murdering another student, you’re guaranteed your wand.”

“I—rationally I know that.” Hermione bites her lip. “And I _want _to believe it. But Harry, I’m muggleborn. The way Death Eater families talk, the way people like Barty Crouch think…well, you took muggle history same as I did. You know about the Holocaust, about prejudiced legislature in America. That ideology’s power could very well jeopardize my place in the magical world if push comes to shove.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “We’ll do whatever we have to—if it comes down to it, Sirius will kidnap you, and blood traitor or no he’s still sacred 28.”

Her laugh rings through the compartment. “I _do _appreciate the offer for abduction. I very well might take you up on it if the need arises.”

Ginny comes in a few minutes later, lifting Hermione’s head long enough to sit down before letting it lay on her lap.

(it feels right, when they’re all together—dark and twisty souls that understand each other.)

“Bill’s coming home for Christmas,” Ginny announces, smile blinding. “He can’t wait to meet you both.”

“Even though I’m an attention seeking twelve-year-old stealing his soulmate’s limelight?”

Hermione snorts. “Harry, I’m sure the sibling Ginny and the twins look up to the most knows better than to believe a single thing Rita Skeeter writes.”

“Also, you’re my friend, and Fleur adores you. And he trusts the two of us over anyone else in the world.” Ginny’s assurance soothes him.

But Hermione’s heated, now. “The nerve of that woman—exposing Hagrid, publicizing personal details for no reason just to cause a stir and make people pay attention to her. She’s getting this information from somewhere—and my guess is that it’s illegal. I’m going to figure her out.”

“Little vindictive there, Mia?” Harry teases.

“Not hardly. Anyone who gets that kind of sick satisfaction from exploiting those who are vulnerable needs to be stopped.”

It’s only the beginnings of an idea—wisps of theories of how the bloodthirsty journalist does it. Bits and pieces of plans of how to stop her.

(Rita has no idea the war she’s started.)

/

Spending the holiday at Andromeda’s…it’s pretty much the best three weeks of Hermione’s life.

Professor Lupin—_Remus_, he keeps reminding her he’s just Harry’s uncle Remus, now—is around for scintillating conversation.

She can see how he and Sirius fit so well together—Remus knows the pain of a fucked up family, too, but he’s rational and gentle in all the ways Sirius is righteous and impassioned.

The days they spend reading and discussing in the library (the study, as Andromeda refers to it), at some point either Harry or Sirius comes to tell them to sleep, or eat, or bathe, or that Andromeda is going to lock the library if they don’t come watch Christmas movies with the rest of the family.

“Your mother couldn’t _stand _sappy shit like this, pup,” Sirius laughs over the rom com script, Remus nodding in agreement beside him. “James would offer to do her half of the chores around the house for all of December if she’d watch with him.”

Andromeda’s smile is soft. “And the times she said no, he’d show up here, usually with Sirius in tow, and he and little Nymphadora would eat ungodly amounts of popcorn while we watched.”

“Once we had a pie eating contest and didn’t stop till all three of us threw up.” Tonks recalls the memory with a grin, looking not at all regretful about the experience.

Remus turns to Hermione with a raised eyebrow. “Can you believe we’re joining this family _voluntarily_?”

She bursts out laughing. “Most days I think their crazy must have rubbed off on us. Although mine is much more well behaved than these three.”

Sirius scowls, but Harry just mumbles, “tell that to my eyes that are scarred from walking in on the two of you last week.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks, and she claps both hands to her face to avoid meeting any of the adults’ eyes. “Harry James Potter!”

“Don’t worry, Hermione, no one cares. This family doesn’t have any boundaries,” Tonks assures her.

“And here I thought it was just Sirius with no sense of propriety.”

“I had to get _something _from the heathens who raised me, kitten. And you can’t afford to be shy around family when you all end up marrying one another.”

Remus rubs at his eyes tiredly. “Must we discuss all the incest in _toujours pur_? So many minutes of my life have already been wasted doing so.”

“No wonder they’re all batty,” Hermione mutters under her breath.

Andromeda smirks cheerfully. “Say all you want, love, but we all know you’ll be one of us one day.”

“She might choose to keep the name Granger, though,” Remus muses, eyes thoughtful.

“No,” Hermione blurts. “I—I’m all for women keeping their names if they choose, of course, but—not me. I’d like to become a Black when Draco does, or whenever we get married, anyway.”

She can feel both Tonks and Sirius eyeing her carefully; Harry’s hand lightly squeezes hers with understanding.

“Well, kitten, _I _for one can’t wait for us to be family.”

Hermione blushes at the wink Sirius sends her way, but thanks him nonetheless.

It’s crazy, being so surrounded by loving adults; on more than one occasion, she or Harry has made a passing comment about something that has drawn fury from the four adults at the implications.

(the shared glances between Sirius and Tonks speak of murder when Harry and Hermione both flinch at sudden movement.)

(both curl inward at raised voices, cower away from anger assuming they’ll bear its burden.)

And they know more than they’ve let on—Hermione notes the way Sirius starts singing on his way into a room, the way Tonks’s clumsiness becomes much more exaggerated, when they notice that both teenagers become panicked when surprised.

Part of her hates it—hates that they’ve figured her and Harry out, hates that they’re altering their behavior because she can’t handle it, hates the idea that they might know.

(But the rest of her is so grateful, so overpowered by the kind of love that allows a person to notice your tics and triggers, to figure out how to help you feel more at home in your own skin.)

It’s also one of the only times she’s gotten to talk with other wizards about muggle things, and not in a degrading or awed way—others who understand the muggle world and wizarding world equally well, who she can crack jokes about Dumbledore being Gandalf to. Ted Tonks seems equally as thrilled as her to discuss it all, while Tonks mostly listens, occasionally making mention of things that are different between being muggle raised versus growing up with knowledge of _both_ magic and muggle.

Hermione’s always hated holidays, mostly—has always been bitter at the celebrations amidst people who claim to love her but only make her feel small.

But it’s different, this time; she doesn’t hate it when she actually feels so loved and supported, so warm—when her gifts are items intended to genuinely make her happy rather than things that feel like blood money.

(her own blood—gifts, in exchange for her silence, she often muses.)

She and Harry have a snowball fight, and eventually everyone joins them, Andromeda casting warming charms on their bodies the second she spots a shiver.

(Harry meets her eye, thrilled, the maternal affection still surprising him.)

Draco sends her an early copy of a new release by her favorite muggle author (which she knows must’ve cost far too much but she’s too overjoyed to scold him), Remus gives her an engraving of her favorite quote to hang on her wall, and Andromeda and Sirius absolutely _spoil _her rotten—they go so overboard with trying to make her and Harry’s holiday special that it’s overwhelming.

Parcels arrive from Ginny and the twins as well as Luna and Blaise, of course, all of which are incredibly thoughtful and just—

(she is _so_ incredibly loved.)

Hermione, Tonks, and Harry are sprawled on the living room floor, _Doctor Who _blaring from the tv, and Tonks groans when Sirius’s voice becomes audible.

“Not again—Sirius, it’s practically New Year’s! You _have _to stop singing _God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs_ or I’m going to lose it.”

“I can’t and I shan’t!” he declares, pulling his hair into a bun. “Christmas only ends if you let it.”

“Or if you’re an atheist. Which you are,” Remus reminds him dryly, earning a laugh from the three younger wizards on the floor.

Sirius narrows his eyes at his soulmate. “Keep it up and you’ll be sleeping on the couch, Moony.” He turns back to the other three. “Andy’s managed to get my old motorbike back, so I’m going to take it for a spin around the property. And of you rascals want to come with?”

“Hell yes!” Harry leaps to his feet. “Tonks, you in?”

“You’re just going to leave Hermione out?”

Harry snorts at Tonks’s worry. “As if Hermione would ever voluntarily do something that required her feet leaving the ground.”

The girl in question grimaces, looking up from where she’d been jotting a note to Draco on her forearm. “He’s right. Few things sound less appealing, actually.”

“Hm.” Tonks waves a hand at Sirius. “I’m okay—you two have some godfather time.”

“Don’t you mean _dog_father?” Sirius’s grin lights up his entire face, the pun earning a groan from Remus.

“Tonks you have no idea what you’ve just done—it took six _months_ for him to stop saying it the first time around after James and Lily asked him.”

Sirius shrugs. “I think it’s half of why James asked me, to be honest, so I’m really just honoring his legacy every time I make the joke.”

He and Remus bicker back and forth as they walk out with Harry, and Tonks sits up energetically, expression expectant.

“What?”

Tonks rolls her eyes. “Girl talk! Or—I don’t think either of us is necessarily all about the usual type, but—I want to hear about your relationship with Draco! Or if there are any things you want to talk about—the good or the bad.”

Hermione hums, eyes wandering around the room aimlessly. “Well, Draco is—the best. It seems hopeless, since it doesn’t look like we’ll ever be able to publicly be together but…I don’t mind, as long as I have him. He knows me so well, knows exactly what I need even in my worst moments.”

“Good.” Tonks smiles fondly, but then her face goes serious. “And he’s not—pushing you into anything you don’t want? He’s my cousin, and I love him, but if anything he does makes you feel—”

“No.” Hermione’s tone is clipped, and she takes a deep breath before expanding. “He is…perfect, where that’s concerned. Respectful and kind and loving and caring, and just…everything I didn’t know was possible.”

She meets Tonks’s eyes nervously; the way the young woman is looking at her, her body language while she asked…it feels like an understanding passes between them.

(a terrible and wonderful unspoken understanding.)

“What about you, then—any love interests on the horizon?”

Tonks quirks her lip at the subject change. “No, not as of right now. I went on a few dates with a bloke who works at Flourish and Blotts, but there wasn’t much there, and my last relationship…well, let’s just say she’s a writer and I’m sure our fight will end up in one of her books.”

“Yikes,” Hermione winces. “Well, they always say love comes when you least expect it, so maybe it’s better this way.”

“For sure. And I have eyes on my soul mate, so whenever the time is right…But beyond that, I don’t have time to catch feelings for anyone at the moment, anyway, with trying to figure out this thing with Moody when I’m off shift.” A frown forms on her face, the worry about her mentor palpable. “There haven’t been any other odd developments, have there?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Not that any of us have noticed. But Fred and George are working on some…inventions, of a sort, that I think will be really helpful in figuring him out.”

Tonks nods, lips pursed and shoulders set determinedly. “I look forward to it. In the meantime, I’ve gotten approved to come for the second task, so we’ll see what I can figure out while at Hogwarts. And it’ll be fun to watch Harry compete, of course.”

“If he ever bothers to figure out his clue,” Hermione scowls. “All four of them are putting it off, and it’s making me crazy.”

“Well, when they get around to it you’ll get to say I told you so, I suppose.”

(Does she _ever_.)

/

/

When term starts back up, it seems to hit all the champions that the second task is dangerously soon; they all bring their eggs to their classroom one night, and what feels like a busted eardrum later, they’ve come to the conclusion that all four eggs scream with no discernable difference or pattern.

Cedric begins pacing, hackles clearly raised. “How are we supposed to get anything from that? How does it test our proficiency as wizards—these tasks seem more indicative of luck and tendency to cheat prior.”

(Theo’s anxious about his safety, and his boyfriend’s worry has him on edge, wanting nothing more than to put the Slytherin at ease.)

“I agree. But ze egg…it must mean _somezing_.” Fleur’s brows draw together. “Another language, maybe? Or a creature zat speaks zru screams—maybe we ‘have to fight a banshee?”

Viktor meets Hermione’s eyes. “Library?”

“Of course.”

Which is where Luna finds them, two hours later, every text Madam Pince possesses that covers banshees spread across the table.

“Never thought I’d find you in the Mostly-Mythical Creatures shelves, Hermione.”

Hermione half-laughs, rubbing at eyes tired from poring over the small, faded print. “Fair enough. How are you, Luna? I missed you over break.”

“I missed you too.” The other girl glows at the words. “I’m good—it feels like the year is getting closer to being over, which is sad because I love having so many new people around for the tournament, and all the events and parts of the magical world we’re being exposed to that we don’t usually get to see. But—I’ll admit, it makes for an overwhelming number of strings, and chaos in my head, so…part of me will be glad for the reprieve when all the extra students and staff leave.” She squints at the spine of the book in Hermione’s hands, expression only growing more confused. “What are you reading about banshees for, anyway?”

The brunette sighs heavily. “We think they might have something to do with the second task, but we’re not turning much up. The eggs scream when opened, though, just—screeching we can’t make heads or tails of. There’s not much else to go on.”

“Hmm.” Luna cocks her head. “Would you mind showing me? I’m not fluent in banshee calls by any means, but I know a few, enough to at least confirm that’s what you’re dealing with.”

“Really? Luna, you’re a godsend!”

On their way, Luna relays all of the strange talents she’s accumulated over the years, curtesy of her father’s assortment of eccentric interests.

Hermione’s fairly used to Luna’s unique way of seeing the world, but it’s interesting to watch Viktor taking her in for the first time—he appears both flummoxed and impressed by her, which makes Hermione smile.

(It’s the way everyone _should _respond to the Ravenclaw—and it’s a confirmation that Hermione’s chosen well in becoming friends with Viktor.)

“They did at least attempt to imitate the appearance of a dragon egg, then,” Luna muses, weighing the object in her hands thoughtfully. “Better get on with it, then, I suppose.”

Without further warning, she clicks it open, Hermione and Viktor both immediately pressing their hands to their ears.

Almost as quickly, Luna closes the egg back up with a shake of her head. “Well, I’m afraid none of your research on banshees is going to help you here, babe. That’s mermish for sure. I only caught the first line or so, but if you hold it underwater it’ll sound like English and you can get the full translation.”

Hermione just blinks at her.

Viktor is likewise blank faced. “I’m sorry?”

“Your clue is in the language of merpeople—I could translate it now, but the volume intensity on that thing really is painful, and you can all understand it just as well on your own if you open it up underwater.”

“You—you speak mermish?” Hermione clarifies.

“Of course I do.” Luna cocks her head. “Water covers three times that what land does. That means three times as many creatures, three times as much life.”

“Ve are up against—mermaids?” Viktor asks, still confused.

“Well, all I caught was that you’ll be going to them somewhere underwater—I’d assume the Lake, since everything is supposed to take place on Hogwarts grounds. But you’ll have a better idea once you’ve listened to the whole thing—merpeople tend to speak almost in riddles, so if you’re confused by any of the language once you’ve got the whole clue down I’m happy to give my thoughts, although between the two of you I doubt you’ll need my help.”

She hugs Hermione before heading out, leaving the two to stare at the eggs for a moment, jolted at the upending of everything they thought they knew about the second task.

“I suppose now is good time to learn a vay to breathe underwater,” Viktor mutters.

/

“What could they take that would seem so important?” Cedric wonders aloud, fingers tapping on Theo’s back. Cedric’s on the couch in the champions’ classroom, Theo seated on the floor in front of him, scribbling an essay on the coffee table.

Now that all four champions have listened to the clue the whole way through (approximately twenty times each), they’ve been brainstorming different ways to stay underwater for an extended period of time; they’d decided Harry should go gillyweed, since he’s not as proficient with charms and transfiguration as the other three (Viktor using transfiguration, as that’s his strong suit, and the other two choosing the bubble head charm for its reliability).

Harry sighs, throwing and catching the rubber ball in his hand. “I mean, it doesn’t have to actually _be _important, really. We’re magically bound to participate, right? And aside from me, everyone has strong aspirations to win, so they don’t really need it to be something particularly valuable.”

“Zis is true. Although I wouldn’t put it past zem to take somezing close to our ‘earts for ze drama—just because zey can.” Fleur rolls her eyes, but doesn’t seem too worried.

Cedric nods before changing track. “My parents are coming to watch, by the way—they’d like to meet you all, if you have time.”

“Of course! My sister will be ‘ere as well.” Fleur beams. “Gabrielle ‘as not stopped talking about ‘ow excited she is.”

Viktor smiles half-heartedly, and Hermione bites her lip, knowing he’s wishing there were a way his family could afford to come too.

A knock sounds on their door, startling them all, as almost everyone who knows about the room is currently inside it.

They grow even more anxious when the lock spins of its own accord, but then the door opens, revealing a grim-looking Professor McGonagall.

“Miss Granger, Mister Nott, I need to speak with you—if you would kindly follow me to my office.”

The words are kind, but she looks livid; Hermione and Theo both hurriedly get to their feet before following behind her as she moves through the castle at a breakneck pace.

“Er—Professor? Is everything alright?” Hermione’s voice is timid.

McGonagall sighs at the question. “I’m afraid not. This castle functions at the whim of a sociopathic tyrant.” She huffs, nostrils flaring so strongly Hermione’s almost surprised she’s not breathing fire.

Hermione and Theo exchange worried glances; anything enough to upset McGonagall this much is bad news.

“Whatever the case, I will see to it that everyone involved is okay. Or I’ll be in Azkaban for Albus and Barty’s murders come morning.” She mutters the second bit under her breath before turning to the two of them. “Please have a seat.”

She gestures to where a lean Durmstrang student named Sasha (Viktor’s best friend from school) and a lithe blonde girl sit looking similarly confused.

Dumbledore enters as they do so, and all four of them grow tense when McGonagall turns away from him, rage burning in her eyes. “I’m so very sorry about this.”

(Everything goes dark.)

/

/

“Potter!”  
Harry jumps at the sound of the whisper in the empty hall, raising his wand beneath the Invisibility Cloak. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, you idiot.” Draco removes his disillusionment charm, standing up against the wall next to the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“How did you know it was me?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I’ve been casting a _homenum revelio_ every ten minutes. Knew whenever someone was there and not visible it would be you.” He purses his lips. “You’re freakishly good at walking quietly, you know that?”

Harry snorts. “Thanks, it’s the trauma. Years of not being allowed to make a sound or exist, and all that.”

Draco nods, commiserating. “We love the random skills you gain from a shitty childhood.”

“Not that I’m not always glad to see you, but—did you need something? You seem…anxious.”

The Slytherin crosses his arms. “Hermione’s disappeared. She was supposed to come by the RoR after your champion rendezvous, and now she’s not answering any messages.”

Harry’s lips pull downward into a frown. “McGongall pulled her and Theo an hour ago. He hasn’t been back either?”

“No. Could we—the map?”

Harry fumbles around in his bag till he gets ahold of the parchment in question, holding it in the air between them. “Yeah, they’re both still there. Along with someone named Sasha Maksimov and…Gabrielle Delacour? But I thought she wasn’t getting here till tomorrow…oh, _fuck_.”  
“Fuck what?” Draco goes alert. “What have you figured out?”

Harry tugs at his hair anxiously. “The clue for this one said the merpeople would be holding something we’d sorely miss. But…what if it’s some_one_?”

The blond’s eyes blaze with anger. “They wouldn’t. The liability—”

“There are already four students’ lives in danger, what are four more.”

Harry holds no illusions about the school’s concern for his own well-being.

It feels like everything is spiraling out of his control, yet again—always, always, out of his fucking control.

His friends keep being taken, people keep getting hurt, his entire life turning at the behest of anyone and everyone who’s not him—_it never ends_.

(It’s enough to make him go mad.)

Some naïve part of him wants to fight it, wants to storm up to Dumbledore and scream and rage and demand that his best friend be treated better than a pawn in a competition for the ministry’s amusement.

(But he knows better than to think anyone would care.)

His righteous indignation is reflected in Draco’s eyes—worse, since the Slytherin in question has always seen Dumbledore’s darker nature.

(The man who allows this to happen is not on their side.)

(None of the people in power behind this are on anyone’s side but their own.)

/

The morning of the second task is brisk; the atmosphere stifled, as spectators are torn between the excitement of the tournament and the boredom that is a task taking place entirely underwater, only the actual moment of victory itself visible to them.

Tonks is there, seated in the section reserved for ministry officials, and she sends a wink Draco’s way when no one is paying attention. He quirks his lips upward in a smile of reply, but is too anxious, too tense through every inch of his body, to do anything else.

He _knows _Hermione will be fine—knows the school’s image struggled too much what with the opening of the Chamber of Secrets for anything drastic to happen now.

(But the fact that she’s being put in this position…he wants to tear down the ministry, brick by brick.)

His peers crack jokes about him being so pissed because Harry’s the center of attention (again), and he’s grateful for the excuse to not need to attempt to disguise how peeved he is. Blaise claps him on the shoulder, grimacing in solidarity every so often.

But Draco knows he won’t be able to breathe again until Hermione does.

While all the champions look tense where they stand on the dock, Fleur is the most visibly furious—perhaps the only person on the entire property more upset than Draco.

(Harry’d sent a message to them as soon as he and Draco had figured out what was taken, so they’d all had forewarning, but nonetheless…none of them are remotely happy.)

Fleur paces as they wait for the cannon to sound, glaring up at the judges table (and at where the taskmasters sit behind them) every minute or so.

Draco doesn’t think they realize just how royally they’ve screwed up—and that they’ve given her the best motivation in the world to win (and to destroy them).

The crowd all cheers when it starts, and all four champions dive into the water hastily, and then—silence.

It’s anticlimactic, in a way the game makers don’t seem to have considered in their planning.

There’s evidently some sort of deal with the inhabitants of the lake, who inform the announcer of significant developments—the different champions’ choice of underwater functioning, the different obstacles they’re coming across.

Viktor’s injured by the great squid, a standoff with an ichthyocentaur fucks with Cedric’s bubble-head charm which then has to be re-cast nonverbally, and the entire audience gasps when they’re told that Fleur’s become trapped by Grindylows, who’ve managed to take her wand—it comes floating to the top of the lake like a bad omen.

Everyone who placed their bets on her begins scrounging for coins in their pockets when the water ripples, and the update comes that the French witch has managed to repel all the Grindylows with wandless magic, and continues on toward the goal.

Then it’s silent for another half an hour, at which point the four champions all return in rather quick succession—Fleur is the first to the dock, with nearly a lead of nearly ten minutes. 

She gently carries Gabrielle in her arms, the younger girl gasping when she regains consciousness. Fleur waves her hand to cast a drying spell and warming charm, accepts her retrieved wand from Madam Maxine, and waits for Madam Pomfrey to give her the okay on her sister’s health.

As soon as Gabrielle’s confirmed to be okay, Fleur turns to the judges and taskmasters with a stoic expression.

And sets all six of them on fire.

/

Hermione comes to, gasping, soaking wet and shivering.

(Putting children at the bottom of the lake in the middle of winter—fucking _genius_. Gold star for the Board of Education.)

Harry’s arm is around her waist, keeping them afloat; Viktor and Sasha are climbing onto the dock a few yards ahead of them.

It takes her less than a minute to find Draco in the crowd—maybe soul mate instinct, maybe the hair ten shades paler than anyone else’s—and though she’s not surprised he’s relieved to see her okay, she’s shocked by the grin on his face.

Until she follows his nod toward the judges’ table, where Cedric is attempting to soothe a raging Fleur, and the judges are all attempting to put out the flames engulfing their elongated table.

“D’you—d’you think she—” Harry gasps, as the gills slowly fade into his neck.

“Absolutely.” Hermione’s breath comes out in a pant, but she nonetheless has to resist the urge to burst out laughing at Fleur’s display. “They should’ve known better. Screwing over champions is one thing, but coming after family…they’re up against a big sister’s wrath.” She smiles at Harry. “I imagine your reaction wasn’t very pleasant, either.”

His nose scrunches while his cheeks flush. “Not exactly. I think Draco and I scared Blaise.”

“Meh, Blaise can handle it. Anyone destined to keep up with Ginny Weasley is made of strong stuff.”

Madam Pomfrey smiles softly at the two of them as they approach, sending a scowl towards Dumbledore before casting diagnostics.

Close up, Fleur’s back and forth with the judges (no longer on fire) is audible.

“Miss Delacour, this behavior is unacceptable, and not befitting a champion nor civil!”

“You want to take a _child_ for ze stupid tournament and talk to _me _about what is unacceptable? You want to endanger a leetle girl, who ‘as not consented to be a part of zis competition nor is able to understand what it entails, and tell _me _endangering _you _is a problem? Absolutely not!” Her nostrils flare, and the air around her shimmers, as though the bit of veela magic in her veins is as fired up as she is. “I assure you, I will be looking into ze danger you put my sister in, and your rights to do so, and I will be ‘olding _everyone_ involved responsible.”

“She’s wonderful, that one.” Tonks beams as she approaches Harry and Hermione, pulling Harry into a tight hug. “Good job today, kiddo.”

Hermione stiffens in surprise when Tonks hugs her as well, but returns the hug after getting over the shock.

“Mum, Remus, and Snuffles are with the rest of the families—they’ll be wanting to see you, of course. And I think some of your other friends’ families.”

Sirius pads over the second Harry and Hermione are on actual land; he nuzzles Hermione’s hand in a way that lets her know he’s glad she’s okay, and it—it’s so _nice, _having a friend whose family so easily considers you one of their own.

Remus mostly checks in about classes and their mental health, and Andromeda is largely quiet—which Harry shrugs off, but Hermione locks eyes with Sirius.

(knowing well that a quiet Slytherin is one plotting revenge for their loved ones.)

And then Percy Weasley, of all people, approaches, reaching to shake Harry’s hand like they’re colleagues rather than people who’ve eaten cookies till getting sick together more than once over the last few years.

“Hermione, nice to see you—and Professor Lupin, I hope you’ve been doing well.”

“How could he be, seeing as your charming employer regularly throws support to anti-werewolf legislation.” Tonks smiles sweetly while delivering the barb, blinking with innocence when Percy stutters in response, looking taken aback by both her words and her appearance, almost entranced by the bubblegum pink of her hair.

“I—er,” Percy grimaces, looking around before lowering his voice. “In all honesty, I disagree with Crouch on a great many fronts, but the position gives me more power to influence positive change than I would otherwise have. For now, it’s—well, I know right now I’m working for a shitty cause, but our side needs people in high places, and until we can root out the insidiousness currently dominating the ministry…”

“You’re playing the long game,” Remus murmurs, eyeing him carefully. “Be careful, Percy. You’re very young to be depending on such a dangerous charade.”

Percy straightens. “Someone needs to do it. Might as well be me.”

“Gryffindors,” Tonks rolls her eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “The pride, the arrogance disguised as boldness. You lot are going to make me prematurely gray.”

“Sorry, do I know you?” Percy asks her, an odd expression on his face. “I’m Percy Weasley.”

“Tonks.” Tonks just smirks at him. “And not yet. But don’t worry, I’m free Friday night—we can get dinner.”

He blinks, but nods in agreement cautiously. “Right, then. I’ll owl you?”

“Sounds peachy.” She winks as he walks away with a wave to Harry and Hermione, looking pleased when he nearly bumps into a tree trunk.

“You shouldn’t tease your soulmate so much,” Remus chides, making both Harry and Hermione’s jaws drop.

“But it’s so _fun_,” Tonks says, the words coming out nearly song like. “He’s so cute when he’s nervous. Besides, it’s just for now, I’ll tell him Friday.”

“Percy is your soul mate?” Harry clarifies, wide eyed. “How does he not know it’s you?”

“He only knows my middle name—Suzanne, after Dad’s mum, in case that was your next question. You can see why I’m so excited about Fleur being fantastic.”

She heads off shortly after, wanting to snoop around the faux-Moody for a bit before families are expected to leave the premises, leaving Harry and Hermione largely stunned as they walk to Hogsmeade for lunch with Andy and Sirius.

Hermione moans, leaning her head on Harry’s shoulder when they slide into a booth at the Three Broomsticks. “Tonks, Fleur, Ginny, Blaise, the twins, and Oliver, all around the same table for holidays. Can you imagine.”

(Sirius barks in agreement.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter might be a bit of a wait (this semester is kicking my ass) but it will likely be v long + include lots of big plot points we’ve been building towards (ginny+blaise. Other things but specifically ginny+blaise which has been KILLING me to not write yet so get HYPE) so hopefully that will be worth the wait!
> 
> much love, and always excited to hear your thoughts. I hope life is treating you well.


	13. this is when it starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all continue to be so unbelievably kind and supportive and i love hearing your thoughts on this story. genuinely they are so encouraging and make this all feel worth it.
> 
> in line with my recurring trend of being a LIAR, did not end up getting to third task in this chapter (oops)  
but it is long and lots of important plot things happening and i am hype for the next!!!

It’s weeks since the second task, and all of them are filled with pent up rage, for all different reasons.

Draco and Fleur are both still simmering over the endangering of non-champions—Fleur smiled sweetly and is pretending bygones are bygones, as women so often must.

(but really she’s just waiting, biding her time until she can destroy them from within. They’ve let down their guard enough that it won’t even be hard.)

And Hermione only grows more and more lethally angry with every morning paper.

They laughed about her apparent tryst with Harry, the love triangle of a power hungry fifteen year old—Viktor’s best friend Sasha had framed the article after laughing for an hour straight, before adhering it above his best friend’s bed with a long-term sticking charm.

(Not permanent, he’d assured Viktor—because otherwise how would he re-hang it in Viktor’s flat after graduation?)

Which—the things that Rita writes are ridiculous, but they’re also _slander _of _minors, _it’s unacceptable on a moral level, and Hermione just _knows _there’s something sketchy about it.

(She just has to figure out what that is.)

/

She’s with Ginny in the library one day when Blaise stops over to say hi—upon seeing Ginny, though, he takes a seat, looks at her with concern.

“How are you doing?”

Ginny shifts in her seat, “Fine, thanks.”

It’s clearly a lie; Hermione knows her friend well enough to know something has been bothering her, but she’s not sure what, and has been trying to give the redhead space for whenever she wants to talk about it.

But Blaise doesn’t let it go—frowns when Ginny doesn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, right now—the second task, and them holding students hostage like it’s a joke, after what you went through…” He swallows heavily. “It’s fucked up. Disgusting of them. I—don’t know the right words, but—I just wanted to mention it. Let you know I see it, and you.”

Ginny’s neck snaps upward, her eyes wide with surprise. “I—” she takes a deep breath, hope in her eyes. “God, yes, _thank you_. It’s been killing me,” she confesses in a whisper.

Hermione’s heart breaks, because really, it hadn’t even crossed her mind how parallel the situations were; how much it must hurt for the worst time of Ginny’s life to be deemed acceptable entertainment.

“It’s put me back a lot, in terms of—recovery. I just…merlin, it was hell. And they just—commodified it. Thought it was funny to kidnap an eleven year old girl and hold her down there for sport, for a test of champions when she wasn’t even a part of it all…” Ginny shudders.

(It’s an all too familiar story.)

“It’s shitty of them to have done. Not that they’ve ever done anything right, especially considering everything that happened was on their watch, but—this is especially fucked up.” Blaise gives a soft smile half-heartedly. “If you need anything, or—someone to talk to, or anything, I’m around.”

“I—thanks.” Ginny watches him carefully, expression pensive.

(There are bags under his eyes, his normally clean-shaven face covered in stubble—for someone usually so put together, he looks like he’s having a rough time.)

After he leaves, Ginny leans her head on Hermione’s shoulder with a sigh.

“Sorry you’ve been going through this alone.” Hermione says the words so quietly they’re nearly inaudible, reaching a hand to gently stroke the other girl’s hair.

“It’s—you’ve had a lot on your plate. I didn’t expect anyone to…” Ginny trails off, trying to put what she’s thinking into words. “I’m bad about reaching out when I should. I—I know that you all care, and I know that I could tell you when I’m struggling, but I always feel like a burden and—” she blows out a deep breath. “as much as my parents love us all and have never made any of us feel like we’re in the way, or anything, it just—has always been clear to me that the less I need, the less I ask of them, the better, just so that—they can relax more, have one less thing to worry about, you know? They have so much on their plates.

“And so I—it feels like I should just handle things on my own as much as possible. So when things like this happen, it just—makes more sense to me not to bother everyone with it.”

Hermione pulls her tighter. “That makes sense, Gin. But—love, you’re not okay. And we want to be here when you need us, we want to be able to be there when something like this is killing you inside. We’re—_worried _about you.”

Ginny sniffs, wiping at the drops just beginning at her eyes. “I—love you.”

“Love you too.” Hermione gives her one last squeeze before pulling back. “And so do Fred and George, and you should probably have a talk with them whenever you feel up to it, because they’ve been—well, very worried.”

(So worried they’ve been ‘accidentally’ scheduling one of them to bump into her every meal to make sure she eats and doesn’t run to the bathroom, worrying she’ll slip back into the darkness if they don’t; so worried they’ve postponed all pranks to avoid detention so they can be around at a moment’s notice if she needs them.)

“Yeah, I should do that,” the younger girl sighs reluctantly. She picks up a quill, beginning to tug at her sleeve. “My soul mate too, I haven’t really responded to him in weeks, so knowing him he’s losing his absolute—” She stops speaking abruptly.

(The image of Blaise’s careful constant perfection falling apart flashes through her mind.)

“It can’t…that bastard,” she whispers, jerking to her feet.

“Gin? What—”

Ginny waves her away. “I’ll catch up with you later. I have to double check something, and—kill my soulmate, possibly.”

/

They’re in the common room late; most of Gryffindor has already gone to bed, but Harry and the twins just got back from Quidditch practice a bit ago and only then got started on homework, and Hermione is (naturally) working on some extracurricular research.

“The wizarding world is so weird. Why don’t we learn about math?” Harry drops his parchment to the table. “I mean, really, I know we all complained about it in primary school, but like—being able to do basic multiplication and division is kind of necessary. Maybe if wizards learned some arithmetic the number of sickles to a galleon wouldn’t be _ridiculous_.”

“Now you sound like me,” Hermione grins with a brief laugh. “I suppose this is what happens when you assume everything muggles do is inferior—you lose a lot of quality knowledge and skill for the sake of the principle.”

“What are you working on, anyway?” Harry asks, peering over her shoulder at the cardboard box full of newspapers and periodicals spanning the last two decades, and several Hogwarts yearbooks from when his parents’ generation was in school.

“Just doing some digging on Rita Skeeter.” Hermione’s lip curls even as she says the woman’s name, distaste evident in her expression.

“You know you might not find anything,” Harry reminds her, using one hand to rub at the tension in her shoulders. “She’s shitty but that doesn’t mean she’s doing anything illegal.”

“And also the people who have the least scruples tend to be very good at hiding the proof. Look at Barty Crouch—slippery snake,” George scowls. “No offense to our beloved snakes, of course.” He rolls his eyes at the amusement on Fred’s face. “You’re telling Daph I said that, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely, brother dearest,” Fred confirms cheerfully.

The portrait hole opens, and Dean, Ginny, and Seamus come clambering through, merrily greeting everyone.

Hermione winces at the noise, brow furrowing as she skims another convoluted piece of Rita’s.

“You alright, Hermione?” Dean checks with a soft smile. “You look like you have a bee in your bonnet.”

She offers a tired wave. “No, I’m just…trying to solve a puzzle I only have half the pieces of.”

Fred raises an eyebrow. “Wait, back up—_why_, exactly, would ‘Mione have a bee? And she’s not even wearing a bonnet.”

“It’s a muggle phrase,” Hermione explains, beginning to gesture widely. “It’s not an _actual _bee on your head, it—” her eyes widen, and she begins mouthing to herself, running fingers through her hair. “Oh my god, that’s it. That’s how she’s—" she jumps to her feet, picking up only the most recent papers frantically, not minding the mess she leaves in her wake.

“Care to explain?” Harry asks nonchalantly, very nonplussed by the chaotic display.

“Not yet, but I have to—I really think we’ve got her, Harry! Oh, Dean, I could kiss you—”

“Think both of our boyfriends might have a problem with that, but kind of you to offer,” he mutters dryly.

Hermione’s so distracted she doesn’t panic at another person knowing she has a boyfriend—Harry’s begun circulating rumors about her seeing someone outside Hogwarts to deflect attention from her and Draco, but she doesn’t know that yet.

Harry shrugs. “She’ll tell us when she has all the information. Might as well not worry about it till then.”

(Just long enough for the idea to stew, for her to decide how to handle it.)

(For her to make Rita pay—keep her from ever exploiting another.)

/

/

Hermione and Draco are curled together underneath the Invisibility Cloak, posted outside pseudo-Moody’s office.

“You know, when I said we should have a date night soon, this really wasn’t what I had in mind,” Draco mumbles against her hair, arms looped around her waist in a way that makes her feel safe from the whole world.

“Hush, you.” She hums contentedly when he presses a kiss behind her ear. “Besides, we’d both be bored on a normal date night—we wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about all the things we need to do.”

“Nope. I would just think about you, and I think I have enough practice keeping you distracted to keep you from worrying about other things.”

“Maybe so. I suppose we can try it next week.”

“Shrieking shack date would be fun,” he muses, smiling when it earns a laugh form her.

“Remus and Sirius would die—I’m all for it.” Hermione watches the office door closely, lips pursed. “Percy told Tonks he hasn’t seen Crouch senior since the second task—he’s been having Percy fill in at all kinds of events and duties. Which, I mean, Percy is obviously thrilled at the opportunities, and it’s allowing him to do a lot of networking, but…it’s strangely out of character. Perce says something about it feels off.”

“Hm.” Draco shifts his weight a bit, trying to come up with possible explanations. “I mean, something must’ve changed if Junior’s been out all this years but holed up at home and is just now among society.”

“But we don’t even know that he _was _holed up the whole time—he could’ve been using Polyjuice all the time and we’d never know. We don’t have a Map of the whole wizard world.”

“More’s the pity. I’m surprised Sirius hasn’t tried that, yet.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Honestly, I bet they did when he and James first became Aurors.”

The doorknob begins to turn, and they both immediately go silent, letting go of each other beneath the Cloak and gripping their wands in a defensive position.

Pseudo-Moody comes out, stepping just over next door to put some prep materials in the classroom.

While he’s gone, Hermione and Draco hurry to slide the flesh colored string out of the cotton drawstring bag, slipping them under the cracked door before disillusioning them.

They hold their breath when Moody heads back inside the office, closing the door behind him.

But the now-invisible string goes unnoticed, and when they hear his footsteps through their end, both Draco and Hermione’s eyes sparkle with relief.

“Remind me to buy the twins a really great birthday present next month,” Draco mumbles. “What did they call these things, again?”

“Extendable ears. They’re rather like muggle bugging devices, don’t you think?”

He nods. “It’s too bad we don’t have cameras that can do this, too—although we could always disillusion wizarding cameras, but I’m sure his security spells would be strong enough to detect it.”

“If only we had the microscopic cameras like in Spy Kids,” Hermione muses, waving away Draco’s look of confusion.

Crouch junior’s quiet for a while, occasionally mumbling to himself and turning on an enchanted record player with decent music at one point.

It’s nearly midnight, both Hermione and Draco yawning and ready to leave and go get some homework done, when there’s a crackling, popping noise—and then voices.

“What the hell do you want, Wormtail, we didn’t arrange—m-my Lord, please forgive me, I didn’t see you there.”

_“What news of the third task, Bartemius?”_

“I—it’s to be a maze, my Lord. I’m working to cast a Portus charm on the trophy at the center to bring Potter to the location you desire, My Lord.”

_“Interesting.” _A moment of quiet. _“Do not fail me, Bartemius. Your efforts thus far have been…disappointing. Lord Voldemort does not offer second chances.”_

“Yes, my Lord. I will not let you down.”

_“Wormtail will ensure that everything runs smoothly on this end and that all the other elements of the ritual are in place.”_

“And then you will—regain—your form, my Lord?”

_“Correct. And stronger. And then you will all convene at my call once more.”_

There’s more of Crouch’s kissing up, a last reminder not to fuck up from Voldemort, and then the floo connection shuts off.

Footsteps, and then the door to Moody’s bedroom slams shut.

Hermione and Draco practically race to the RoR, eyes wide and skin pale when they arrive.

“Wormtail has a way to get him a body again. Back to full power.” She shivers with fear at the thought.

“That must be why my mother’s Mark has been darkening—he’s alive, and conscious, and regaining power.”

“When he said they would all convene…”

“He means the Death Eaters, yeah.” Draco puts his head in his hands. “Fuck. I knew things weren’t great, but to be this close to a resurgence of the war…”  
“We have to do something.”

(_Dumbeldore’s never bothered to listen to us before--what can we possibly do?)_

They floo Sirius later that night, just her, Draco, and Harry; he begins downing firewhiskey like water as they relay the story.

He’s quiet, when they’re done. No commentary on the situation, no jokes at Crouch’s expense.

(the expression on his face, just—devastated.)

(Thirteen years and the hurt still stings; a brother turned enemy the wound that never heals.)

“Sometimes, I think the betrayal was the worst thing he’s done,” Sirius whispers, devoid of emotion. “Sometimes, I think the pretending to be our friend was worse. Sometimes I think it’s this day a week before Halloween, when I watched as he ate the dinner Lily made and accepted the gift James gave, and held Harry and smiled at him—when he’d try to end them all a week later.

“But having Voldemort call him Wormtail—having the man who murdered the kindest human who’s ever lived, who tried to kill his infant son, who’s been the cause of hundreds and thousands of murders and tortures, call him by the nickname that the _very same _friend came up with out of love for a lonely boy, who he only ever offered love to, asking for nothing in return. It’s fucking despicable.”

“Any part of me that ever cared about him died a long time ago.” Remus agrees, stone faced. “All of it is unforgivable. But this—it’s a never ending betrayal. James has been gone over a decade and Pettigrew’s still doing wrong by him.”

It’s forced, calling him Pettigrew rather than Pete.

(But they can’t think of him the same way—can’t think of James smiling at the witch working the food trolley and asking for their order, _“and an extra set of cauldron cakes for Pete, please.”_)

“One day I’m going to destroy him” Sirius vows softly, eyes shattered. “He has no idea the magnitude of the wrath he’s going to face.”

/

/

Hermione’s in the RoR with Draco, half on his lap with a textbook before them, though between his hand on her thigh and their recurring commentary on what to do about Crouch they’re getting very little studying done.

“Still not sure how to go about exposing him—we’ve no way to explain cause for an identity check, and since you don’t want me to slip veritaserum in his morning pumpkin juice—”

“What I don’t want is you ending up in Azkaban, Draco,” she rolls her eyes at him. “His father’s high up in the ministry, I’m sure he knows exactly how illegal that is and would ensure that you were charged. Not to mention confessions made without due process are invalid, anyway, excepting Sirius’s case of course, and we still have no proof of reasonable cause.”

“If we do get to him, though, I’m sure he’d rat out everyone for a chance at a lighter sentence. Which means they could catch Pettigrew…”

“And Sirius could be exonerated,” Hermione finishes for him, smile on her face. “It’d be nice for some good to come from the hell that is all of this situation.”

Before Draco can reply, the door slams open, and Blaise practically falls inside.

“—bloody insane witch!”

“If you hadn’t been such an _asshat _and kept it from me I wouldn’t have needed to resort to this!”

Ginny’s voice enters the room before she does, eyes shining with anger in a way that has Blaise unable to look away, despite continuing to back away from her as the door slams shut behind them.

“Thanks for the warning,” Draco says acidly, making both Ginny and Blaise jump, the jaw of the former dropping at the sight of Hermione and Draco entangled on the couch.

“ ‘Mione? What the—he’s—” Ginny blinks. “I mean, I knew there was a lot of sexual tension there, but—”

“No tension. Lot of sex, though, this room is constantly barricaded for—hey!” Blaise cries when Draco chucks a shoe at his head.

“You’re her soul mate?” Ginny clarifies, eyes narrowed at the Slytherin in question. “Roman, or whatever, after that muggle story?”

“Yes,” Draco confirms with a nod, resisting the urge to correct the name.

“And you’re this idiot’s best friend?” she asks as well, jerking a thumb towards Blaise.

“That’s correct, although I really do rethink that decision every day.”

Ginny tilts her head at him. “Then I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” She turns to Hermione with raised eyebrows. “He’s not a prat, then?”

“Oh, he’s definitely a prat,” Hermione assures her, screeching when Draco pokes her in the side in retaliation. “Prat that I love, though. He and Harry are good friends, too.”

“Stop telling all my secrets, you’ll make everyone think I’m soft,” Draco complains.

“No one’s going to ask about _this_?” Blaise demands, holding up hands covered in bright red, and pointing to where _IDIOT_ is written on his forehead in bolded letters.

“I assumed you just wanted to warn everyone you come into contact with what they were getting themselves into,” Draco shrugs. “It honestly seems like a good idea.”

“This witch is _batshit_,” he enunciates, waving towards Ginny. “Doesn’t have a conversation with me like a normal person, just scribbles on my forehead to make a point. In the middle of an advising session with Snape!”

“And you didn’t just—stop her, when you saw the marker coming towards you?” Hermione asks.

Ginny grins. “Oh, he didn’t see it coming.” She lifts her bangs to show the same letters gracing her own skin—it’s only then that Hermione notices her gloves, which must be covering the initial source of the red paint on Blaise’s hands.

“Jesus, Ginny—go big or go home, much?” Hermione laughs.

“Well, if he’d just told me we were soul mates ages ago, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this, would I?”

Blaise groans. “Okay, you and I both know if I’d told you back then you would’ve run away screaming and likely filed for a restraining charm.”

“And at no point since then did you think maybe things had changed and _letting me know _would be a good idea?”

“Well, only this year, and then I didn’t know how to go about—stop writing profanities on our skin, witch!”  
Ginny raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Why would I do that? Evidently in this relationship one of us makes decisions that affect us both—I’m just exercising that right.”

“Merlin, I’m _sorry_, Gin.”

“Hm.” She crosses her arms. “You’re going to be groveling for quite a while, you realize that?”

“Yes,” he admits reluctantly, a resigned expression on his face. “Anything else?”

“I don’t want to change my name—we’re either hyphenating or you change yours to Weasley.”

Blaise shrugs. “Fine by me.”

“And I think I might like to have a job where I travel quite a bit, and I’m not going to argue with you about whether or not I should, or if it’s dangerous, or anything. It’s my life.”

“Right on.”

She smirks. “Care to go play Quidditch, then?”

“How about you play and I spectate and cheer really enthusiastically when you fly well?”

“Cool.”

They chatter quietly as they exit the room as quickly as they’d entered, leaving a bewildered Draco and Hermione in their wake.

“Did that just happen?” Draco asks, head turning back and forth between Hermione and the door.

“Somehow, I think so.” She shakes her head. “And this is day one. The rest of our lives dealing with those two.”

“Unless we elope and run away to America till we die,” he wheedles. “They’d never look for us there.”

“Then we leave Harry _alone _with the two of them, Percy, Tonks, and Sirius.”

Draco groans, pulling her closer. “I suppose even I’m not that much of a monster.”

/

/

“Mister Malfoy, please stay for just a moment after class,” McGonagall says nonchalantly when passing by Draco’s class in the middle of the lesson.

Terror runs through him—his work hasn’t been subpar or unusually stellar, so it can’t be about her course.

(Which means it’s about something else—his family? His potential allegiance to Voldemort?)

By the time the class ends, he’s riddled with tension; the day was already stressful, because Hermione’s caught a particularly nasty illness that’s had her laid up for days and he’s anxious for her to get better.

(Madam Pomfrey gave her some dreamless sleep to help her rest more and hopefully heal sooner, but said there was nothing else to do but wait.)

His classmates file out of the class, and he follows the professor to her office; she doesn’t close the door, but he hears her mumble a silencing charm around them.

She turns to him expectantly, glasses perched on her nose in a way that would appear perilous on anyone else but the older woman manages to make seem imposing.

“Is she doing alright?”

Draco’s eyebrows draw together. “I’m sorry, who?”  
“Miss Granger, of course. Poppy told me she was ill, but now I haven’t seen her for several days, nor has she been in Gryffindor tower…if there are any resources she needs, please tell me. I’d also hoped you would be so kind as to bring her the work she’s missed, else I know the girl will be nothing if not frantic.”

He blinks at her, mouth opening and closing as he tries to compose a coherent sentence. “Professor, I—I’ve no idea why you would come to me about this. You of all people know Granger and I aren’t friends, where you’d get such a crazy—”

“Mister Malfoy.” She stares him down as he cringes at the mention of his surname. “You are aware I am an animagus, are you not?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And you’re aware that animagi retain the abilities of their alternate forms, to some extent?”

“Yes, Professor.”

She crosses her arms. “Then why, exactly, would I be unaware of the relationship between the two of you, when your scents’ constantly linger on each other and I possess a feline’s sense of smell? Tell me my instruction hasn’t failed you so greatly.”

“I—” Draco stutters, cheeks flushed. “I had never considered it at all, Professor. I admit that seems rather foolish on my part.”

“Yes, well, we all have our moments, I suppose.” McGonagall sighs. “Not as bad as the three students who illegally became animagi and even with their _own _enhanced senses assumed I wouldn’t have caught on to them, but then it’s difficult to be more witless than that, wouldn’t it?”

He nods, chewing his lip nervously before asking, “Professor? You don’t—mind, that Hermione and I are together, despite who my family is…everything I’ve done? You—”

(_You don’t hate me? _he wants to ask, the question burning his eyes.)

“Draco,” McGonagall says gently, reaching to squeeze his hand when he goes wide eyed at the use of his given name. “Do you know why I became a teacher?”

“Er, I’m afraid not.”

“I could’ve been an Auror—had the grades, the battlefield experience. I was approached by the heads of several ministry departments about coming to work for them. I had the qualifications for a barrister’s internship. But I chose to be here.” She waits for him to meet her eyes before continuing. “Because I believe that every student deserves the chance to be all that they can—deserves to have someone believing in them, and supporting them, and harnessing their strengths and helping them battle their weaknesses. _Whoever _their parents may be, and whatever may be expected of them before they reach adulthood.

“Whatever your relationship with your peers, when I am speaking to you, I am first and foremost your educator. A teacher who has a duty to _you _to do everything I can to help you learn, to help you become the best version of yourself. No matter your family, or your house, or the ideology you’ve thus far been taught to have. You are every bit as much my student as any Gryffindor.”

Draco swallows heavily. “I—thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. It’s my job; the entire purpose of my being here is to do just that. Anyone who doesn’t has no place in this field—as I’m sure you’ve unfortunately learned through experience at the hands of some of my…colleagues.

“As for your relationship with Miss Granger—well, she is a very bright young witch with a wonderful heart. I have faith in her enough to trust her judgement, and furthermore, Mister Malfoy, I know who you are at heart, whatever act you put on in class. I know my students.”

“I—” He resists the urge to say thank you again. “I’m very grateful, Professor. For all of it. I…what you said, about what teachers should be, is—important. It means quite a lot to me.”

“Of course, dear boy.” She offers him a small smile. “I have a feeling it won’t be the last time we discuss the importance of love in teaching. One day, when we’re past this mess…well, I believe you, Mister Potter, and I will get lunch and discuss your aspirations.”

His heart thumps at the prospect—at the implication, that she thinks he and Harry could have a place here. “I would love that, Professor. And—sorry, we got side tracked, but Hermione is okay. Started feeling a bit better this morning, and wanted to try to take an invigoration draught and go to class, actually, but she was still so pale and fevered Harry and I threatened to damage her books if she didn’t rest for another day.”

“Of course you did,” McGonagall shakes her head fondly. “Very well, then. All of her work is in here.”

“Thank you.” He turns to head out, before spinning back around to her with a quizzical expression. “I just have one more question.”

She motions for him to ask.

His palms sweat at revealing himself inadvertently, but he can’t help but wonder. “If you knew about the three students who illegally became animagi here, then—when Sirius escaped Azkaban, you must’ve known how he did it.”

“Why didn’t I come forward with the knowledge?” her eyes twinkle gently. “As I said, Mister Malfoy, I know my students.”

The older woman raises an eyebrow. “Do you know, I once watched Sirius Black receive a semester-long weekly detention for something James Potter did. Sirius received a Howler and was suspended from Quidditch for the rest of the season, and I’ve no doubt the punishment from his ghastly mother was…well, barbaric. James had less of a record, probably wouldn’t have had such severe consequences. But even at fifteen, Sirius Black was not capable of letting his friends suffer if he could prevent it.” She purses her lips. “You know, one’s animagus is somewhat indicative of their character. And don’t we always say dogs are the most loyal creature of all?”

/

/

The third task is just a week away, and Hermione’s considering resorting to fairly desperate measures to prevent Crouch from attempting to abduct Harry.

Andromeda reported an anonymous security threat to the Tournament Cup to Dumbledore, in the hopes of him keeping it out of the pseudo-Defense professor’s reach, but they all remain unconvinced as to whether or not it will do any good.

(Whether Dumbledore even _wants _it to, when it would only add to Harry’s infamy, the reputation that Dumbledore relies on to strengthen his movement, to strengthen the horde standing behind him because they believe it’s the only option for “good”.)

The other three champions have been warned about the potential danger of the cup, of course—have discussed all refusing to touch it, if push comes to shove.

But no one wants it to get that far.

“England iz simply ridiculous,” Fleur declares as they all head down towards dinner together. “I do not understand, ‘ow we can _know _ze professor is an impersonator and a wanted man, and yet it matters not! One day zis world will regret never listening to ze young people.”

Hermione wants to scream _yes, exactly_—the knowing while everyone brushes aside her comments because she’s young is enraging in the most frustrating way.

(The kind of thing that reminds her of being in her hometown, of saying she doesn’t like him while everyone in the community is telling her how he’s simply the kindest man around.)

(How she’ll understand the things she resents her parents for now when she’s older.)

(she thinks not.)

“It’s time for us to take matters into our own hands,” Ginny agrees, cracking her neck thoughtfully. “I haven’t gotten to use my tripping jinx in a while, anyway. And Theo’s hands are nimble enough to swipe the flask. I do love making a scene.”

It’s not the most elegantly executed plan in the world; Fleur distracts pseudo-Moody, Ginny casts the jinx, and just as Flitwick is turning to reprimand her Blaise “accidentally” opens the flask he’s palmed and sends the contents spilling across the Great Hall floor.

Snape rises to his feet with a scowl at the sight; he descends from the teachers’ table, pulling a vial from his pocket to scoop up some of the concoction and hold it up to his nose.

The potions master jerks his head at McGonagall, and whatever their differences, it’s clear they have an understanding where safety protocol is concerned, because she immediately summons restraints to bind the imposter where he stands.

“What the fuck, Minevra? What in the seven circles of hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Save it,” Snape sneers. “Headmaster, the flask contained Polyjuice potion. Whoever this may be, they are certainly not Alastor Moody.”

“Didn’t you have any security measures in place?” Minerva hisses at Dumbledore angrily, so that only those within a few feet of them can hear. “Merlin, Albus—how can you have let this _happen_?”

“Minerva, if you would be so kind as to owl Cornelius and watch over the rest of dinner, I’ll bring this individual to my office for questioning while we await law enforcement. Severus, if your veritaserum is matured…”

“Yes, Headmaster,” he inclines his head, scowling at pseudo-Moody. “I’ll be there in just a moment. I can’t wait to hear what I’m sure is a most…scintillating tale.”

As soon as they’re gone, McGonagall hollers at the room to settle down, scribbling a messy note to the minister before turning to Ginny and Blaise, still near the entryway.

“That looked like quite the coincidence to me,” she chides as she approaches them, such that only they can hear. “However did you manage to work it out?”

“Lucky…inkling?” Ginny tries with a dazzling smile.

McGonagall snorts. “Cute. Somehow I think you’ll end up giving me more trouble than any of your brothers, Miss Weasley.” She sighs, crossing her arms at them. “Five points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin for putting yourselves in danger and attempting to accost a potential threat rather than coming to us for help.”

“Because the authorities around here have such a great history of helping out in a crisis,” Blaise mutters, earning narrowed eyes from the matronly woman.

“I wasn’t finished, Mister Zabini. Ten points _to _both houses for catching someone who very well may have been a danger to the entire school.”

“Professor?” Hermione approaches, voice quiet. “I’ve no proof, of course, but…just a guess. There’s, um, a slight possibility the fugitive is in fact Barty Crouch junior.”

“Just a guess, is it,” McGonagall repeats dryly, rubbing at her temples. “Anything else to add?”

“No, ma’am. Well, actually—Winky!”

The elf in question appears with a bright smile. “Mistress! Is everything okay?”

“Yes—er, well, I’m not sure, Winky. It seems your former master’s son has been in the castle, pretending to be a professor.” She squats down to pull Winky into a tight hug when the elf pales, pressing a shaky hand to her small mouth. “If there’s any information you’re comfortable giving to the Headmaster to help them figure out how he managed to do it, or if you think you’d be able to get through to him at all…you absolutely don’t have to, of course. Only do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Winky is happy to help.” She frowns, shoulders tense. “Old master is a bad man—but his son is _evil_. I is knowing lots about the situation.”

“Thank you so much, Winky. After you should take the weekend off, okay? Rest and relax, that’s an order.”

Winky scrunches her nose at Hermione, but strokes a hand down her hair fondly. “Yes, yes, always with the orders to relax, Mistress is. Winky thinks Mistress is a hypocrite who never sleeps herself.”

Hermione scowls, but smiles when Winky presses a kiss to her forehead before popping away.

/

They're not given any of the details, of course—Dumbledore’s nothing if not consistent when it comes to leaving them in the dark.

But the _real _Alastor Moody is freed and escorted to St. Mungo’s an hour later, and the next morning’s paper shows Crouch Jr’s new mug shot with a scandalous account of the tale.

Hermione’s reading her copy of the _Prophet_ aloud, Harry’s chin on her shoulder. “—_Crouch, who then confessed to_—my god—_killing his father the day of the Triwizard Tournament’s second task_—at Hogwarts! All this time, Percy’s been saying Crouch was off, and—dead! This whole time.”

“Not to mention Defense is the only useful class and now we won’t have it for the rest of term,” Harry pouts, lifting a piece of bacon around Hermione’s neck and into his mouth. “An’ Voldemorth’ abou’ to ki me.”

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” she chastises him playfully. “it sounded like you said Voldemort wants to _kiss_you.” Her attention turns back to the article. “Dumbledore declined to comment on how long the former Death Eater has been successfully impersonating a Hogwarts professor—”

“Skip that rubbish, the best bit’s on page three.”

Harry and Hermione both jump at the sound of Sirius’s voice, just a foot away.

“What are you doing here?” Harry jumps to his feet, throwing his arms around his godfather; the older man is dressed in formal robes, pristinely groomed and finally up to a less worrisome weight.

The rest of the hall begins to fill with whispers as others take note of the face so familiar from wanted posters, surprise mounting at the easy way he speaks with Harry and Hermione.

“I’ve been declared innocent of all charges. Crouch told the Aurors everything he knew before McGonagall would allow them to administer the kiss, which included all the bits about the rat. Prompted Kingsley Shacklebolt to send an owl out to find me and offer me a chance to take veritaserum and tell my side of the story, and if it lined up with Crouch’s account, be exonerated. And here we are.” He gestures grandly. “I went straight from there to the Wizengamont to formally reclaim both my family’s seat and the title, and to Gringotts, of course.”

“Next stop a barrister to file for a wrongful conviction without your right to trial and reparations?” Hermione checks with a grin.

Sirius reaches to give her a one armed hug. “Just as you told me, kitten.”

“I can’t believe you’re free,” Harry says gleefully, eyes wide and delighted.

“Sirius Black!” McGonagall marches down to where he stands at the Gryffindor table, hands on her hips. “Sneaking onto Hogwarts grounds without proper approval, barging into the middle of breakfast—just because you’re no longer a fugitive doesn’t mean you can revert to the rascal of your youth!”

“Aw, Minnie, I missed you too,” he beams. “You can act angry all you want, but a little birdie told me you believed in my honor the whole time. I knew my love wasn’t unrequited.”

“Merlin and Morgana help me,” she mumbles to herself with a shake of her head. “It’s very good to see you, Sirius, however dramatic you are. I’ll go warn—that is, _inform_—Poppy and Filius that you’re here.”

And Sirius stays for the rest of the day, regaling Gryffindors with tales of his time at Hogwarts, signing Harry and Hermione out of classes for the day and taking them down to Hogsmeade just because he _can_.

(Because he’s _free_—finally.)

For the first time in a while, Hermione finds herself optimistic—finds herself believing they might really all come out of this okay. That they might have actually averted the crisis.

(Finds herself feeling hopeful.)

But Tom Riddle is too smart for that—has too many intricate plans for one loss to topple him. Crouch or no, he has a plan in place to regain his power. And they’ve yet to even make it through the third task.

(The feeling doesn’t last.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (also, question: would y'all want a running list of the songs whose lyrics are used in the chapter titles? they're usually ones that I'm listening to while writing each particular chapter (but also it's cool if not, was just a thought) )
> 
> lots still to come and yet im so blown away by the fact that we've made it this far--i am so grateful to y'all for sticking around.
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	14. as the smoke clears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, friends.
> 
> i hope you're doing okay.
> 
> it's...a crazy time to be alive. I teach history, and this kind of thing just...well, it feels all-consuming, which is scary. but i have faith we'll get through it, somehow. i have to believe the good in humanity will win.
> 
> end of GoF here--lots of big things, and lots of drastic changes, so--i hope you like them.
> 
> as always, thank you for your continued love for this story. it means the world (especially on days like this).

Sunday brunch is generally the most subdued Hogwarts gets, given the frequency of hangovers due to post-Quidditch Saturday night parties and the sense of foreboding regarding assignments due Monday morning beginning to set in.

Blaise and Daphne have joined Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins at the Gryffindor table; Ginny and Blaise had a drinking competition the night before, so they’re both nursing a headache but bashfully leaning into one another.

(They have a strange newfound relationship, but Hermione and Draco have just decided to spectate.)

Hermione’s leaned over a thick research text, engrossed in the clarifications of the animagus process, for reasons she’s refusing to explain to any of them. Harry puts eggs and bacon on toast, making it into a sandwich and placing it on the plate at her elbow; he nudges her until she notices, sheepishly mouthing thank you at the reminder to take care of herself before devouring the sandwich.

“All I’m saying is, there’s no reason we should have a _substitute _teacher for Defense when Professor Lupin is available. I think _everyone _learned more in any given week last year than they have with every other teacher combined,” Daphne insists, crossing her arms as she finishes off her pumpkin juice.

Harry nods in agreement. “Uncle Remus says they’re working on it, actually—McGonagall and Dumbledore wrote to him as soon as the post became available, and they’re in the process of petitioning the Board of Governors for his reinstatement. McGonagall thinks the Board doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on,” he grins. “I was talking to her about it earlier, and given that the appointment _they _recommended turned out to be an escaped felon performing Unforgivables in class, there’s very little they could say to defend not appointing a previous teacher whose instruction saw the highest OWL scores in two decades.”

“My mother is good friends with several Board members—I’ll write and see if she can sway them at all,” Blaise muses. “Even the shitty ones—I bet we could convince them it would help the pureblood cause, or some bullshit. And as awful as they are as human beings, they do _want _their children educated well.”

“To be taught by a Marauder would be the greatest honor,” Fred sighs, feigning wistfulness.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “You were already taught by him.”

“But I didn’t _know_ it was him! I couldn’t truly appreciate him like he deserves.”

A throat clears hesitantly from behind Harry and Hermione, and they both jump, turning to see a bashful seeming Ron, shoulders curved inward and head bowed. “I—hey. Could we talk, for a moment? Just the three of us?”

Hermione’s eyes flash with distrust, but despite everything—despite the loneliness he’s made her feel over the years, despite the offhanded insults she’s never been able to brush aside, despite the last few months of him joining those disparaging Harry and throwing dirt on her name—he has a special place in her heart, and Harry’s.

(He’s _Ron_.)

And while his behavior has been appalling, he’s also been a part of some of their best moments—he’s the one who threw up slugs for days defending her when Draco called her the m word, the one who let a chess piece knock him out and an animagus break his leg and went up against a basilisk on Harry’s behalf, the one who grew up never having excess and yet still never begrudged either of them a place in his home or in his family’s hearts.

So she nods, and Harry follows suit, and the three of them leave the Great Hall to avoid the prying eyes already paying too much attention to their business.

“I—” Ron takes a deep breath, clenching his jaw as he visibly steeles himself for the hit to his pride. “I fucked up. Not just at the ball, but—looking back, there are a lot of times I haven’t been a good friend to you both. And I’m sorry.” He looks down at his feet, not meeting their eyes as he shifts his weight from side to side. “I spoke with George last week, and apologized to Daphne as well, because—I know the things I’ve done have gone beyond just us. And I’m going to be less of a prat, and more thoughtful, I swear. It—you don’t owe me forgiveness, I know. Or your friendship. But…I’d be grateful for both. I—miss you.”

The last sentence is choked—sad and hopeful.

Harry bites his lip, eyes wary, Hermione similarly nervous; it’s the way one can’t help but be around others when they know their ability to hurt them.

But the apology is honest, the humility sincere, in a way Ron wouldn’t have been before; it’s proof of his own character growth, if nothing else.

(And if he’s capable of this kind of change, capable of this kind of learning…it _means _something, in the biggest way.)

“We’ve missed you too, mate,” Harry says softly.

Hermione nods in agreement, offering a small smile.

Harry clears his throat. “You see about the Harpies-Cannons match last week?”

The casual comment-the nonchalance with which Harry extends an olive branch back into their old routine—draws a shaky inhale from Ron, who bounds forward to throw his arms around them both in a fierce hug.

(They stand there in silence for a moment, Ron’s limbs trembling as he holds them tight, as though he’s worried they’ll change their minds.)

Ron blushes when they all pull away, wiping at his face hastily. “ ‘Mione, I—I know I’ve really taken advantage of your help for class before, and I don’t want to do that again. But if you’re still doing the tutoring sessions with Neville, Hannah, and Lavender on Tuesdays I’d really like to join.”

“You’re always welcome. Blaise joins us too, sometimes.”

The redhead scowls. “Ugh.” At Harry and Hermione’s widening eyes, he hurries to clarify. “I don’t hate him because he’s a Slytherin. I hate him because he’s dating my baby sister.”

“Yeah, anyone dating your sister is automatically an asshat,” Harry concurs with a grin, bumping Hermione’s shoulder with his own. “I’ve told Hermione’s secret muggle boyfriend as much, too.”

“You did not—Harry James Potter!”

(He gleefully begins running away, both Hermione and Ron laughing right on his heels.)

/

The day the third task arrives…well, Hermione is a generally anxious person, but today her chest feels especially tight.

She goes to the champions’ tent again before hand; Sasha and Theo are there as well, looking more nervous than any of the champions themselves, who seem resigned to whatever horrors the day will bring.

Cedric clears his throat before speaking to the room. “If I die—”

“I love you, if you don’t shut the fuck up I will punch you in the face,” Theo replies monotonously, no hint that he’s joking in sight.

“No one is dying except me,” Harry insists, earning groans from the room at large.

“Is ‘e always like zis?” Fleur asks Hermione, rolling her eyes.

“Pretty much. Ever the martyr, no matter how much his aunt and I try to stomp it out of him. I think Sirius would kidnap you right now if he heard you say that, Harry.”

He grumbles, arms crossed, the picture of angst. “I don’t care. I’m tired of my friends being in danger because of me.”

“It’s not because of you, it’s because Voldemort is a psychopath,” Viktor corrects him; they’d filled the other champions in on Crouch’s proposed prior plot, believing everyone in danger had the right to know what they might be walking into. “And unlike you, the rest of us are of age. Ve are going to do everything possible to protect you.”

Harry bites his lip, anxiety practically tangible, and Hermione rubs his shoulder soothingly. “Professor Dumbledore double and triple checked the cup to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with—however much we hate him, he _is _a powerful wizard. And they took extra precautions—all of this worry is probably a non-issue anyways. And Sirius, Remus, and Andy are all here.”

Cedric takes over the comforting him, slipping into the older-brother role he’s taken to playing for Harry—all three of the older champions have become protective and familial, for sure, but Cedric has the gentle heart of a counselor, of a teacher, and a similar way of seeing things to Harry in a way that’s brought them close.

Meanwhile, Hermione catches Viktor and Fleur taking shots again and gives them a disapproving glare, at which point Fleur holds out the flask in offering, and Hermione shrugs before accepting and downing a mouthful.

She wrinkles her nose, making a face at the taste, but the liquor is smooth and doesn’t burn too badly.

The three of them pass it back and forth for a few minutes, until Hermione’s eyes abruptly narrow—she hands the flask back to Viktor with a carefully feigned casualness, conjuring a jar before holding it to the back of Harry’s camp chair and whispering, _“Accio beetle.”_

Harry twists around to see her, jar in hand, raising his eyebrows at the almost scary smile curling her lips. “Mia? Why the sudden interest in entomology?”

“Oh, you know, just making sure no one’s planted any _bugs _to hear our private information, is all.” She beams as the beetle files into the lid repeatedly, frantic. “It won’t work, Rita,” she whispers, quiet enough that no one else can hear. “A criminal that was an unregistered animagus slipped out of my grasp once before—I studied how to make sure I would never let it happen again.”

Guilt wobbles in her chest, but the cretin needs to be stopped—and this method is less cruel than what Sirius and Andromeda had in mind, last they all talked.

“I’m gonna head towards my seat,” she tells Harry, slipping the charmed jar into her bag before pulling him into a tight hug. “You’re going to be okay, yeah? We all believe in you.”

He nods reluctantly, letting out a shaky breath. “Love you.”

“I love you too. Maybe after this we can make it a year without anyone trying to kill you?”

“Doubtful,” he snorts, giving her one last squeeze before letting go. “Tell everyone I was totally calm and collected, will you?”

“Oh, Harry, you and I both know Andy would never in a million years believe it if I did.”

She waves on her way out of the tent, Theo and Sasha not far behind her, and heads to where Sirius, Remus, and Andy are all seated in the front row—Tonks, having been unable to get off work, had ordered them all to keep her updated to the smallest detail.

“How is he?” Remus asks when she sits beside them, Sirius holding out his tray of chips to Hermione in offering.

“Angsty, of course. But mostly okay. Cedric talked him down a bit.”

Sirius purses his lips. “I talked to Minnie—she has all the faculty patrolling the maze and on red alert, and Tonks said there are several aurors on standby as well—they wouldn’t let her do it, of course, conflict of interest and all…not that that’s ever stopped them from anything before.”

“He’ll be okay,” Hermione whispers, wishing she could talk herself into believing it.

_Breathe_, Draco scribbles on their hand from across the stadium.

He’s not far from Blaise, Ginny, and the twins, Ron seated with them all but carefully keeping himself apart from Draco and looking mildly uncomfortable.

Percy is there, yet again, seated near the minister—he’s been kept on by Crouch’s replacement, applauded for all of the work he was doing as Crouch while under the impression his boss was simply pawning off all of his work, and as such is beginning to gain approval and praise throughout the ministry.

(He’s also besotted with Tonks, but that’s besides the point.)

Elsewhere, the rules of the task are explained to the champions; when they get to the part about sending up red sparks for help, Harry raises a hand.

“Wait, so, whenever I want, I can just—be done with the task? Like—I just call for help, and I’m out? Done with the tournament?”

Ludo Bagman gapes at him, looking aghast. “Technically speaking, yes, but to throw away such an honor—”

“One I don’t want, and have been saying since the beginning I didn’t enter for.” Harry crosses his arms, but a grin spreads across his face. “Awesome.”

The other three champions burst out laughing, and Cedric ruffles the Gryffindor’s hair playfully.

(The lighthearted atmosphere doesn’t abate, however much their humor is stifled by nerves when Dumbledore tells them it’s time.)

Ludo Bagman does his thing, and the crowd goes wild when the four champions emerge—the spectators not at all bothered that the tasks have grown more and more deadly, that historically 20% of champions have died during the final task.

All four have stoic expressions, the three school Heads behind them looking equally stony.

And they’re off before Hermione can blink—most of the spectators chatter amongst themselves, again having little visibility and thus mostly waiting for the winner to emerge victorious.

Not even a full minute later, red sparks fly up near the entrance Harry went through.

_“And our first champion is done with the final task—Harry Potter has sent up red sparks for aid and been retrieved from the maze thus earning a forfeit for this task and completing his time as a Triwizard Tournament competitor. Harry will remain with patrolling faculty for the rest of the task’s duration.”_

Hermione and Sirius crack up at the gasps and groans of everyone in the stands, imagining Harry happily relaxing with Professor McGonagall or Sprout—hell, even Snape couldn’t kill the buzz they know he’s feeling right now.

An hour in, golden sparks emerge from the center of the maze, where the winning champion has reached the trophy; cheers erupt, and the cup begins to float, pulling the victor to the judge’s table.

Fleur is battered, standing on a makeshift splint and clutching a visibly broken arm, but beaming nonetheless, overcome with emotion. All Weasleys in attendance jump to their feet, applauding proudly, as everyone on the Hogwarts grounds is in an uproar, the Beauxbatons students casting firework imitation spells while confetti shimmers through the air.

(It’s too bright for anyone to see the sparks. Too loud to hear the screams.)

/

It’s not till half an hour later that anyone knows anything’s wrong.

Harry is sprinting sluggishly, and everyone assumes he’s just sad at missing some of the excitement until he screams Sirius’s name.

(They register the terror in his voice thirty seconds before they do the blood soaking his robes.)

Hermione and Sirius are shoving through everyone to get to him, Andy not far behind, but the first one to him is, of course, Dumbledore.

“He’s back. Voldemort’s back,” Harry rasps out, falling to his knees.

Sirius throws an arm around him, pulling him tight to his chest without paying the blood and grime any attention. “You’re okay. I’m here, Harry.”

Harry starts sobbing, as though Sirius’s presence allows him to break the restraint he’s been using to hold it together.

He’s still weeping, but keeps trying to speak. “You have to—Professor F-Flitwick, he’s…and Professor Sinistra, and… and Mc-McGonagall, she needs help.”

“Severus, Poppy, if you could please aid Aurora, Filius, and Minevra, I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished speaking with Harry,” Dumbledore commands, and Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape are racing away. “Harry, it’s very important you tell us everything you can remember.”

“He will _not_!” Hermione cries, throwing herself between the headmaster and Harry. “Harry needs medical attention, and rest, and time to process the trauma before attempting to give any kind of statement. And it’s his legal right, not that that should matter, because you’re supposed to be his _teacher _and want what’s _best _for him.”

“The sooner he relays the events, the fresher his memory of them, and the more quickly we can take precautions.”

He’s so calm—acting so innocent, while Harry’s traumatized, and the student body is a cacophony of screams behind them Hermione can’t even hear over the angry rush of her own blood through her ears at the sight of this man who’s done so much to hurt so many.

“They’re dead. Because of W-Wormtail. He was there. As a rat, and then—not a rat,” Harry gasps out, tears and snot and spittle on his face. “He avada’ed Flitwick, and Sinistra, and—and hurt McGonagall. And he immobilized me—not magic, the muggle way. Tied me up. He cut me and took my blood and left again, but then I could—I could see _him _in my head, in a graveyard, with a body again and-and—and I know it sounds crazy, but it was real, I _know _it.”

“We believe you, Harry,” Hermione promises, running her hands through his hair gently like she has a million times before.

“That’s enough. We’ll be taking Harry and Hermione home for the rest of the week, if not longer—and if I don’t decide to sue this school for continuing to allow harm to befall my kid on your watch,” Sirius snarls at Dumbledore.

Harry trembles, heavy breathing beginning to veer towards hyperventilation while Sirius holds him tight.

(His godfather’s arms are the only the holding him up—holding him together.)

/

/

Harry and Hermione stay at the Tonks’ residence through Sunday, just as Sirius had declared they would; they miss the funeral for Flitwick and Sinistra, though Ginny and Draco both relay it as being a somber affair the man himself wouldn’t have approved of, though the choir he mentored gave a particularly touching performance, and an astral display for Sinistra.

Things are—uncertain? Shaky?

When they return, they feel wholly separate from everything around them, and it’s clear the student body is giving Harry a wide berth; Draco mentioned that Dumbledore had informed the student body of Voldemort’s return the evening after the memorial ceremony, and it’s clear that the information is weighing on everyone.

(The implications are tremendous—for everyone.)

Given the circumstances, finals are made pass/fail, and the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons farewells feel rather abrupt, though the relationships feel that much more significant for the darkness the three schools of students have gone through together.

The weather is appropriately bleak, the morning they say goodbye to Fleur and Viktor.

Hermione catches Harry blinking rapidly, like he’s holding back tears, and she can’t help but feel similarly upset at losing them—they’re some of the best friends they’ve ever had.

(And after the hell they’d all been alone in together--)

“I’ll be moving to England soon,” Fleur promises, smoothing down the back of Harry’s hair affectionately. “Ze organization I am using the winnings to form—its ‘eadquarters will be ‘ere, so I’ll be back as soon as everyzing is in order. Remus ‘as been so kind in working with me zru planning some of my initial steps, and ‘e agreed to work with me when it’s set up. And once Bill and I are officially togezer…well, you will be sick of me.”

“I can’t wait,” Harry says honestly, smiling at her nervously, like he’s waiting for her to take it back.

“We’ll miss you,” Hermione agrees, letting the lithe woman pull her into a hug. “Though since you and Ginny write most days I don’t doubt we’ll hear all about what we’re up to.”

“Zis is true,” Fleur laughs, reaching up to redo her bun. “And she will let me know if you two are doing anyzing dangerous so I can come ‘ex you silly.”

“To be hexed by you would be an honor.” Cedric says, completely serious, before turning to Viktor, a hand clapping his shoulder “What about you?”

He offers a rare smile. “One of the masteries I applied to vrote to me—apparently they had a representative at two of the tasks, and vere impressed vith my vork. They’ve offered me a scholarship—and to vork around my Quidditch schedule, so my income can still go to my family.”

“Viktor, that’s wonderful!” Hermione beams reaching out to hug him. “You’ll have to come visit when you have the time. Or maybe we can come to you—I bet Sirius would like a trip across the continent.”

“Ve vould love to have you—all of you. But yes, I will definitely come visit when I can. My siblings are eager to meet the other champions who they say are, _‘so much cooler than you, Vitya!’_”

They all burst out laughing, and begin hugging and saying goodbye for real; before they know it, Fleur and Viktor are boarding their respective means of transportation, waving over their shoulders before fading into the distance.

“We’ll see them again,” Cedric says, though he looks just as sad as the two of them. “Fancy one last dinner together before break while everyone else is busy soaking up the sunshine?”

They head inside the castle, Harry and Cedric talking about different things they hope to do over the summer, and Cedric’s post-graduation plans.

(Hermione’s quiet behind them, wondering if life will always feel so bittersweet.)

/

On the last day of term, a school owl swoops down towards them, dropping a letter in front of Harry.

He slides it over to Hermione without looking; she gets letters from her parents frequently, the muggle post directed to Hogwarts then distributed by the school’s mail system.

She frowns when she moves to open it, though, handing it back to him. “It’s for you, Harry.”

“Who would—” his brow furrows. “No name or return address. Weird. What if it’s hate mail?”

“Then we’ll have a fire later and it will make the perfect kindling.”

He bites his lip, taking a deep breath when Hermione squeezes his hand reassuringly.

He’s struck by the seeming familiarity of the handwriting as he unfolds the letter, but it doesn’t hit him till he’s a full sentence in—and by then, he has to keep reading.

> _“Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I worried if I put my name on the envelope you might assume I was trying to give you shit and rip this up before reading it, so—sorry if you wish you could’ve known it was me and done exactly that, I guess._
> 
> _I know we’ve never been on the best of terms, and there’s…a lot, that I wish I’d done better when you lived with us. I felt like I couldn’t argue with Mom and Dad most days, and maybe I couldn’t have, but I definitely could’ve been a better cousin to you. We grew up together—we should’ve been like _brothers_, I think, if we weren’t raised by people so set on treating you so badly._
> 
> _I’m sorry. For all of it, honestly. I just…I’ve felt like it was wrong the last few years, but ever since you left for good, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. And you deserve more than that, and saying sorry doesn’t make up for everything they put you through (that I helped them put you through), but—you deserve to hear it a million times over, anyway. I’m so, so sorry._
> 
> _I just wanted to write and tell you that. And also—from what you’ve said, and letters from your friends I’ve read when you’re not home (sorry), it seems like things at your school get really crazy and not always safe this time of year? So I wanted to—I don’t know, check in, and say that I hope you’re doing okay. And—I’m glad you live with an aunt that’s better to you, now._
> 
> _If you want to hang out over the summer or anything, I’d be down._
> 
> _I’ve told Mom and Dad I have a new pen pal named James (after your Dad—seemed right), so that’s the name you should put on the envelope if you write back—not that you have to. I would understand if you never wanted to speak to me again._
> 
> _Anyway. Hope you’re doing well._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Dudley_

Harry blinks when he finishes reading it. “I—Mia, look.”

“Who was—” she presses a hand to her mouth, eyes widening with surprise at the name at the bottom of the page. “My god. What did he say? Do you want me to read, or—"

He nods, turning to the twins and the rest to explain. “I—it’s from my cousin. On my mom’s side—he’s muggle, and his parents hate me, but he’s…trying to reconcile or something, I guess.”

“What are you thinking?” Hermione asks gently.

“It’s—I mean, I just never expected this. He was a bully for a lot of our childhood, so this is just…I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to _want _to forgive him, you know,” Daphne says, eyes far away. “You don’t owe him anything. It’s nice that he’s apologizing, but—you’re allowed to not want him in your life, after everything he’s done.”

Harry nods appreciatively, but his eyes are pensive. “Thanks. I’m not sure, I—need to think on it a bit. Because a lot of it…well, looking back, he was just a kid who wanted his parents to care, to think he was good. And I can’t blame him for that much.”

“You have the rest of your lives to decide,” Hermione assures him. “And even if you forgive him, you don’t have to be best friends. Or—maybe you _do _get lunch, and then end up deciding you want him to be a part of your life. You don’t have to do anything permanent now. God knows you have more than enough on your plate.”

Harry rubs his eyes, the circles beneath them prominent. “Don’t remind me.”

(The motion draws Hermione’s gaze to the thin scar remaining from where Wormtail sliced open the skin of his forearm—such a small wound that’s already changed their whole world.)

/

She’s pressed as close to Draco as is physically possible, trying to sear the memory of his skin against hers into memory.

“I love you,” he whispers—a reminder. “I’m terrified of what all of this means for us, but I’d go through it all ten times over as long as I got to be with you in the end.”

Hermione hums, squeezing his palm twice the way he’s learned means _I love you_, and moves just a bit against him, shifting her head’s position on his chest.

(Because whatever else is happening in the world, whatever tomorrow’s train ride brings, she can hear his heartbeat—_Draco’s heart is beating_.)

(She can live through anything, as long as his heart is beating.)

“Please don’t do anything stupid,” she says softly, closing her eyes contentedly as his fingers card through her hair, reflexively stretching with pleasure when the other hand begins tracing along her spine. “You matter more than—whatever you have to do. I know who you are, whatever happens this summer.”

(She can’t possibly know how badly he needs to hear it—how terrified he is of becoming a monster like his father.)

“I wish I could be good.” The mumble is half-hearted, and Draco sighs when she stiffens at the comment. “Not—don’t start defending my honor now, lioness that you are. I don’t mean it like that. Just…I never had a shot at getting to be on the side of the light, you know? Theo and Pansy, too—we all know what this means for us. We never stood a chance.”

Hermione’s fists clench, because he’s not wrong—the lines were drawn long ago.

(And they both know who writes this story—who will name the good and the bad.)

“Maybe…” her lips part in thought. “Maybe there’s a way you can.”

/

“Professor?”

She’d gone back and forth for ages, trying to decide whether approaching her head of house was a good idea.

(But she couldn’t not try—couldn’t end the year without going to every possible length.)

“Miss Granger—is everything alright?” McGonagall puts the tin of biscuits on her desk whilst Hermione closes the door behind her. The deputy headmistress’s recently severed forearm is visible, the dark curse Wormtail had used preventing healing, but it’s clear the older woman is every bit as capable as prior to sustaining the injury, missing half an arm or no.

“Yes. I—just had a few hypothetical questions I had. You—you've mentioned before that you’re allowed to speak to us confidentially, and I, well, was hoping to take you up on it.”

McGonagall sits up straighter in her chair, eyes alert. “Of course. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Hermione blurts out hastily, left thumb nervously twisting the ring on her right hand, the way she always does when anxious. “I just had questions, about—legal logistics, regarding muggle family and the wizarding world.” She bites her lip before explaining further. “That is to say, I—if my parents were, for any reason, to attempt to pull me out of Hogwarts—would they be able to do so?”

“Is there a particular reason you’re worried about this, Miss Granger?” McGonagall eyes her, mouth turned in a worried frown.

Hermione’s eyes go wide, and she hurries to come up with an excuse. “Oh, just—when they find out about everything happening in our world right now…well, I briefly mentioned the troll first year, and it took the entire summer for me to convince them to let me come back—and that was without mentioning Quirrell. If they catch wind of anything that’s happened since then, or about V-Voldemort being back, and the blood prejudice…I just want to make sure they can’t keep me away.” Her voice breaks, and she makes herself stop talking—too much explanation is suspicious.

(_Please don’t let them keep me away. Please don’t let me be trapped there._)

“Well, the current administration does attempt to respect the wishes of _all _parents.” Hermione stiffens, but McGonagall continues speaking. “However, the policies themselves have not been altered since medieval times, and as such, afford no rights to muggle parents. While Professor Dumbledore would likely attempt to abide by your parents’ wishes, if you contradict them…legally, no one could forcibly remove you from the school.”

Hermione nods, letting out a deep breath. “Okay. Thank you. I…thank you.” She jerks when McGonagall’s hand grasps hers.

The older woman’s eyes are soft—troubled. “Of course. If there’s anything else…if you ever want to discuss. I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Hermione repeats. “Also, I—” she looks over both shoulders, biting her lip before casting a silencing charm.

The older woman raises both eyebrows. “Miss Granger, what—”

“I know about the Order,” Hermione blurts, eyes wide. “I won’t say how—”

McGonagall scowls, waving the comment away. “Oh, I know very well how, thank you very much, and you can tell Sirius Black he and I will be having a long conversation about the importance of secrecy in the near future.”

Hermione’s posture grows defensive. “He thought Harry and I deserved to know, seeing as Voldemort’s back and we’re likely to be his first targets, me being muggleborn and Harry being…well, himself.”

“Of course he did.” She rubs at her temples, the grey of her hair seeming more prominent than ever. “Very well, then, I assume you have a reason for tipping me off about your knowledge—I hope this isn’t your attempt at joining? You can’t expect to be inducted whilst underage.”

“Oh, I very much do—but you don’t have to worry about that now, Harry and I intend to broach the topic at the first re-vamped meeting, so we can have that fight then. What I wanted to bring up today was…well, I know of someone who wants to act as a spy for the Order.”

“Young Mister Malfoy, I presume?”

Draco had told Hermione, of course, that McGonagall knew, but being _told _that her head of house was aware of her clandestine relationship and discussing it so blatantly were two different things.

She swallows heavily before responding. “Yes. He—he doesn’t have a choice as to being a part of their operations, his father being…well, anyway, he’s aware he’ll be forced to be part of their efforts. But he _can _choose to use it for good, to make it all mean something for the light side—and he wants to. He’s agreed to relay any and all information to the Order from here until the inevitable war ends, under two conditions.”

The deputy headmistress closes her eyes with a deep breath, before reopening them and sitting up straighter. “An admirable offer, of course, but I’m afraid the matter is one for Professor Dumbledore to—”

“No.” Hermione bites the word out reflexively, taking a breath before continuing. “With all due respect, Professor, we don’t trust Dumbledore. He’s manipulative, and callous with others’ lives, and his preconceived notions about who’s good and who’s not have already done a lot of damage. I’m not comfortable with Draco’s life being in his hands when he’s already shown that he abides only by what he thinks is best, and how little value he places in the lives of other people.” She tucks an escaping lock of hair behind her ear with a shaky hand. “We—you already know about us, and even if you didn’t…well, you’re the only one in a position of power within the Order whom we trust, Professor.”

“I—very well, then. I of all people understand distrusting the man.” McGonagall purses her lips, expression inquisitive. “How were you hoping to proceed?”

“We were hoping you might tell Dumbledore that you have an informant, but they’re not comfortable with anyone knowing their identity, even him, because they’re otherwise likely to be compromised. Draco would relay any information he gathers to me, which I would then be able to get to you either under the guise of a summer transfiguration apprenticeship, or when Order meetings take place.”

McGonagall narrows her eyes worriedly. “The information is then being shared twice, which makes it more likely it will be intercepted—is Mister Malfoy not comfortable reporting directly to me?”

“No, it’s not that at all!” the younger woman hastily assures her, fidgeting in her seat. “It’s just—well, the safest way for him to share information is with me, as it makes it impossible for the missive to be intercepted and makes the evidence easiest to conceal. We’re soul mates, you see.”

“Ah. Of course.” Professor McGonagall nods with understanding, something indecipherable behind her eyes. “I am happy to go forward with your plan, Miss Granger. The two conditions, then? I’m assuming one of them is amnesty.”

“Yes, professor, for Draco and his mother, either at war’s end or at such a point as his subterfuge is discovered and they are put in danger for his work for the Order, at which point the Order will provide them a safe haven from that point until war’s end.”

“Naturally. And the second?”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “An opportunity for clemency is to be afforded to all individuals coerced into becoming a part of the Death Eaters’ mission due to parental ties or other factors out of their control, at any point throughout the war at which they surrender or upon its end. These individuals, including many current students in Slytherin house whose parents were on Voldemort’s side in the last war, similarly have little choice but to capitulate to their parents’ commands to join the dark forces, and if we truly are the light side we claim to be we will offer them the opportunity to leave the Death Eaters before punishing them for their parents’ sins.”

McGonagall’s lips curl upward in a proud smile. “Well put, Miss Granger. It will be my pleasure to let Albus know about our newest informant.”

Hermione smiles, face full of relief; she wants to hope it means something—wants to believe the future is bright.

(but she’s numb—can’t afford to get her hopes up. It’s easier not to feel anything.)

/

She’s tense the whole ride to King’s Cross, as always—Draco, too.

(He knows what Voldemort’s return will mean for him—for his family.)

Crookshanks is snuggled up on the blond’s lap, meowling disapprovingly whenever the hand petting him pauses until Draco sighs (as though he actually minds) and resumes stroking his fur.

“You’ll come over soon, right?” Harry wheedles. “Tonks says she can’t wait to have another girl in the house again, and you know I can only handle Sirius and Remus for so long on my own.” They’re empty arguments, but she can see the desperation in his eyes.

(Can see how truly terrified he is, at the prospect of a risen Voldemort.)

_Please don’t leave me alone_, his eyes plead, in the language between them.

And she’s not stupid—she knows it’s for her benefit, too; knows he wants an excuse to pull her away from the horror they’ve never discussed.

It’s an excuse she’ll take, if she can.

“I’ll talk to my parents,” she promises.

Draco’s thumb is rubbing circles on the back of her hand, and it’s all she can do to brace herself.

“Oh, also—” Hermione doubles down on their silencing charm before bringing the jar out of her bag, holding it up for both boys, Ginny, and Blaise to see, the twins having wandered off to work on something for their business.

“Is that the same bug you caught the day of the third task?” Harry asks, face twisted with disgust. “Jesus, Mia.”

“It’s not just a beetle—really, Harry, your only theory is entomology?”

“I mean that or you’re trying to up the protein in your diet.”

She half-groans, half-laughs before straightening in her chair. “Points for creativity, but no. Did anyone notice our favorite pesky reporter hasn’t been around in a while?”

Blaise is the first to get it, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. “No way. Did you really?”

Harry blinks obliviously. “I mean, yeah, it was weird that she didn’t write anything about the third task, or the end of the tournament on the whole, after everything, but I figured she just had other things to cover.”

“No, she hasn’t published a piece since the week before that—Mum noticed, mentioned it in passing in her most recent letter,” Ginny informs him, tilting her head at Hermione. “What’s that got to do with the bug?”

“Well, I’d noticed that Rita had knowledge of things that had only ever been spoken about in private. And I’d also noticed that there had suddenly been beetles around much more frequently, and regardless of the season.” Hermione purses her lips with a cocked eyebrow. “As it turns out, it was just one beetle. An unregistered animagus, in fact.”

“Draco, mate, I’m in love with your girlfriend,” Blaise announces, awe evident on his face. “You sure you were sorted properly, Hermione?”

“Like any other house would do something so reckless,” Draco groans, leaning his head on her shoulder. “Love, you’ve been holding a person hostage for _two weeks_?”

Ginny scowls. “Not sure I would classify that bitch as a person, but he’s got a point, Hermione.”

“She’s been degrading and slandering Harry for months, she outed and was blatantly racist toward Hagrid and encouraged prejudice in the magical community, and she dragged my name through the mud and so severely slut-shamed a fifteen year old girl that I’ve received hate mail and countless death threats—and that’s what we _know_ about.” Hermione’s eyes are full of rage. “Forgive me if I don’t feel as guilty as I should.”

Leaning in so where only she can hear, Draco whispers, “Merlin, you being volatile should not turn me on.” Louder, he asks, “I’m assuming you have a plan?”

“Yes, I’m going to hand her off to Andromeda at King’s Cross so she can obliviate any sensitive information, and then she and Sirius will tell Rita that she needs to stay out of our business or they’ll report her as an unregistered animagus. Problem solved. I actually meant to hand her off the day of the third task, but…well, we all know that went south.”

“You already talked to Sirius and Aunt Andy about this?” Harry clarifies. “Also, wouldn’t it be a bit hypocritical of Sirius to report someone for illegally being an animagus?”

Hermione hums. “Yes, we’ve actually been discussing the best way to handle her for months, and I wrote to them yesterday—they didn’t _wholly _approve, naturally, mostly because it’s been so long, but they agreed it was the best course of action. Andy sent along chocolate frogs so I think she would’ve done the same but doesn’t feel it’s ethical of her to say as much. And Sirius isn’t illegally an animagus anymore, so.”

Harry’s brows pull together in confusion. “I didn’t know he’d registered.”

“He didn’t,” Draco grimaces, his cheeks growing pink. “I forged his signature on the paperwork as soon as he was exonerated and sent it in. With Pettigrew out there, it wasn’t safe for him to not be registered—someone like my father would use that as political capital in a heartbeat, and then he’d be in Azkaban all over again.”

“Any word on whether Professor Lupin will be returning next year?” Ginny asks, frowning when Hermione shakes her head in reply.

“No—Dumbledore hasn’t updated him at all yet, so I suppose we’ll find out then, at this rate.”

They chatter aimlessly the rest of the ride, and by the time they’re approaching the station Hermione’s curled tightly into Draco’s chest.

“I love you,” she tells him, holding their interlocked fingers to her lips.

He kisses her hair gently. “I love you too. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?”

“I’ll do my best,” she says airily, but he can see the darkness in her eyes. “You too. Keep me updated as much as possible.”

They kiss just once before Draco disillusions himself, slinking back to the cabin where Pansy, Theo, and Cedric are.

She feels the familiar adrenaline rush as they disembark, the pangs of wistfulness when Andy pulls her into a warm hug despite having seen her just a week ago. The older woman gives her a teasing glare as she grips the jar, before telling them all she’ll be back at the car waiting with Ted.

Sirius hugs her and Harry and cracks a few dad jokes before waving someone over, and they both turn in surprise to see Fred and George heading over, looking awestruck.

“It’s my understanding that the two of you are quite the innovators,” Sirius begins, a longing smile on his face. “I’ve heard a lot about the stunts you’ve been pulling, and I must say it’s nice to hear the Marauders’ legacy carries on.”

Fred gapes, while George stammers out a thank you.

Sirius laughs. “Don’t be so nervous—I’m just a fellow prankster, after all. But what you two are doing, the things you’re coming up with…it’s on a level the four of us never could have achieved.”

Harry jolts when he says four, no malice on his face—because it’s so rare, for his godfather to be able to look back on those days now without them being tainted at the thought of Peter.

“It’s my understanding,” Sirius continues, “that the two of you aspire to start a joke shop.”

“Y-yes, Mister Padfoot, sir, that’s—”

“If Gringotts will approve our loan request, or we can earn the down payment, or something.”

The older man nods in understanding. “That’s exactly what I wanted to speak to you about. I’d like to be your investor.” He holds out a bag of gold in a silk black pouch with an embroidered _B_ on the front, smile softening when the twins are unable to speak in reply. “Times like now…well, the world could use more joy, more laughs. We all need to be reminded of the joy that’s out there, however far away it might feel some days.’

“I—” Fred gulps without closing his fingers around the pouch. “Mister Black, I can’t imagine we’ll be able to pay you back any time soon, we—”

“I don’t want you to,” Sirius clarifies. “This isn’t a loan. Think of it as an…endowment. All I want in return is you to be successful. And…” he swallows heavily, drawing an arm around Harry. “Something dedicated to Prongs and Evans—it doesn’t have to be huge, or anything, but…they were the best of us. James…James was always the one who gave everything of himself to remind everyone else of the light in the world in the worst moments the first time around. And Lily, she was—the most compassionate person, but still so teasing and able to be lighthearted even while everything around her was falling apart—in a way that made everyone feel like things might end up okay. Giving people hope when life seems pointless…it’s the greatest thing a person can do.”

The twins nod, hastily agreeing and profusely thanking him before tucking the gold away and running off, already brainstorming ideas for the memorial to the Potters.

“Hermione!”

She spins immediately at the sound of her mother’s voice, pasting on a smile and holding up a finger in a promise that she’ll be right there.

When she turns back, Harry and Sirius are both watching her carefully.

“Come soon, okay?” Harry asks, throwing his arms around her. “Love you. Don’t forget to take care of yourself, or I’ll tell Trelawney you’ve realized Divination is your greatest passion.”

“Harry!” she exclaims, giggles pouring out of her at the thought. “Love you too. I will. Give everyone my love until I see them next.”

She worries Sirius will reach for a hug too, but then he’s much too good at reading her for that—he holds out a fist for her to bump, but his eyes are serious. “Our door is always open, kitten. Or if you need to be picked up—I’m always here.”

“Thank you, Sirius. I’ll see you soon.”

“I should hope so—Merlin knows the trouble the pup gets into when you’re not around to keep him in line.”

She laughs, waving to them both as she begins to walk away, forcing deep breaths to hold back the feelings threatening to drown her.

She keeps it all away; by the time she’s enveloped in her mother and father’s arms she’s entirely separate from herself.

(She can’t feel the fear, anymore—apathy is the only way she’ll get through it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. lots happening here, lots of big things in the next few installments--potentially coming sooner rather than later, giving the global circumstances at the moment (I'm in FL, so we're anticipating a lockdown any day). my internship was ended early + i was laid off (big yikes) so likely will have more time to write--hopefully my brain will cooperate and i can work on my novels some but inspiration always seems to come for this first
> 
> it's--a crazy time in the world right now. I hope y'all are all doing okay. please take care of yourselves, as much as you can. all my love and prayers your way, for anyone in your family (born or found).
> 
> these are the days i find myself turning to fiction the most--i've read more fics in the last week than in months, bc it feels like the only thing in the world that helps, or something. i hope this piece can do something like that for you.
> 
> feel free to reach out if there's anything i can do.
> 
> chapter title songs thus far:  
* 2-wildest dreams | taylor swift  
* 3-fall for you | secondhand serenade  
* 4-homecoming queen? | kelsea ballerina  
* 5-unsteady | x ambassadors  
* 6-space between | dove cameron + sofia carson  
* 7-iris | the goo goo dolls  
* 8-the messangers | jared and the mill  
* 9-into the fire | thirteen senses  
* 10-for the first time | the script  
* 11-wonderland | taylor swift  
* 12-control | halsey  
* 13-im not the one | 3oh!3  
* 14-skyscraper | demi lovato


	15. a darkness in your eyes

Summer passing is—a blur of cringing, a melancholy kaleidoscope.

(It’s moments of waking amidst a haze of sleep, a deluge of hopelessness with spots of color.)

Hermione keeps herself numb, and nothing is great but everything is fine.

(That’s what she writes to Draco and Harry, anyway.)

/

When everything threatens to overwhelm her one day, she impulsively goes to the nearby hair salon, asking them to chop it just shy of her shoulders and put in some layers to make it less thick; she has them bleach it nearly Malfoy blonde, because why the hell not, with purple at the ends, and by the time it’s done the contrast is shocking to even her own eyes.

It’s—different, and a lot, and her family is royally pissed in ways that make her life a bit more difficult for a few days, lead to some really awful dark moments.

(But it was _her _choice, in her control, taking her own life into her hands, and—she loves it.)

Harry and Ginny both assure her they love it when she sends photos, and she teases a pouty Draco about the fact that he won’t be able to see it till term starts.

Harry regularly writes to tell her of the happenings at Tonks Manor—apparently Sirius’s ancestral home has been chosen as Order Headquarters, so almost every day he, Sirius, and Remus head over to work on making it presentable, Ted or Andy occasionally joining (_and there’s a house elf, but he mainly keeps to himself, and Sirius has some negative history with him so he doesn’t ask him to do anything, really.._)

Draco is—understandably quieter than usual.

He hasn’t _seen _Voldemort yet, thank god, but because his father is so _esteemed_ in Riddle’s eyes, the rest of the Death Eaters are frequently in and out of Malfoy Manor after reporting for tasks or providing that which they’ve been asked to procure.

(Both Harry and Draco have overheard talk of a weapon, of something that would be different this time, but they don’t have enough of the pieces to put together exactly what it is.)

And as of yet, they’re not recruiting teenagers, but—

(_But Father’s already made it clear that when the time comes we’ll be expected to do our part; I think about it and I can’t breathe, Jules.)_

_( I don’t know if I can do it._)

She hears from Ginny frequently; the younger girl and her soul mate are still “taking it slow”, but given that they apparently pour out their hearts about their deepest fears Hermione and Harry have a running bet on when the two will give up the pretense. And her mental health is allegedly better, which Hermione would take with a grain of salt except even the twins seem much less worried about their sister, which makes Hermione think maybe Ginny really is on her way to recovery. And she’ll be able to play Quidditch in the coming year, which is further cause for joy.

(Threads of hope, despite the sea Hermione is drowning in.)

She responds to all of them briefly, having just enough emotional energy to write about doing some bookkeeping at her parents’ dental practice and the books she’s looking to read, casually assuring them all she’s doing well and just can’t wait for school to start back up.

(She doesn’t mention that she hasn’t been able to focus long enough to finish a book since leaving the castle.)

Harry keeps asking when she’ll come to stay; her parents are reluctant for her to be away, loving the “family” image her being around presents to their social circle and clients—her uncle is the beloved city leader, and their hometown has always loved that he’s close with his brother and his charming sister-in-law and niece.

(The social capital is invaluable to them; she knows it’s the only real reason they decided to have a child.)

Still, the reality is they like the _idea _of a daughter more than they like the actual thing, so a third of the way through the summer they relent.

Sirius Black shows up on their doorstep ten minutes after Hermione sends the missive telling Harry she can come, in his most refined clothing, an icy expression on his face like she’s never seen.

(It’s the version of himself his mother expected, she realizes—cold, and distant, and superior to everyone around him.)

“You must be Helen,” he greets, forcing a pleasant tone and offering a hand to shake; his eyes are busy taking Hermione in, analyzing every twitch and minute movement of hers out of the corner of his eye.

(What he sees makes him have to restrain himself from hexing her idiot parents, knowing whatever has exacerbating her skittishness has been caused by them.)

“Yes, of course, Mister Black. This is my husband, Richard. We’ve heard so much about you, I must say it’s a pleasure to put a face to the name.”

Sirius gives a smile Hermione knows doesn’t reach his eyes. “Likewise. We’re so grateful you’ve agreed to let her come for part of the summer—Harry simply hasn’t stopped talking about how much he misses her, and my cousin and her daughter are both desperate for another witch in the house.”

Hermione’s parents both tense at the mention of magic, and Sirius arches an eyebrow. “Well, Hermione, we’d best be off. If we leave Remus and Harry alone for too long we’ll come back to the most miserable self-deprecating conversation in the world, emo martyrs that they are.”

She laughs, smiling in thanks when Sirius reaches to help her with her trunk and the bag of Crooks’s things.

(She doesn’t notice how careful he is not to intrude on her space, how worriedly he watches her.)

When they land in the Tonks’s fireplace, everyone but Harry immediately bounds toward her.

Hermione flinches back from the arms reaching to hug her—briefly, so minutely almost no one notices.

(Almost.)

She’s tense until she reaches Harry, and only then does she relax, his arms a safe haven even the darkest parts of her mind know she can trust.

(She’ll have to go back soon enough, she knows that, but in this moment—she can breathe.)

/

Summer at Tonks Manor is—contentment and calm, in a way Hermione hasn’t really had before.

As much as the Burrow has always been a place full of tangible love and warmth, it’s also a place full of noise and constant interaction and just—

(it’s hard to feel safe there, when you’re a person who jumps at every unexpected sound and touch.)

This, though, is her and Harry camping out in the living room to marathon shows they both like, it’s sleeping in late and staying up to enjoy the quiet of the night, it’s being able to say she needs some introvert alone time and having just that without being made to feel guilty for it.

Which, Remus and Sirius had considered moving into Grimmauld Place on their own, but they like being around family, and being able to spend full moons in the woods, and having space for Harry to fly; so instead of moving, they just invested in expanding the manor.

It’s a longer, better version of Christmas; she and Remus swap books, and he helps them get ahead on learning important spells and techniques—which they can actually practice, since it’s a magical household.

And being able to see Tonks all the time is just—the best. The older woman is like an older sister, and while she’s goofy, she’s one of the most perceptive and thoughtful people Hermione’s ever met—and it’s so _nice_, not having to be the mature one begging everyone to be responsible for once.

She’s still at her parents’ house often—they like her to be home at least once every week or two, for appearances’ sake, and the back and forth is jarring, in a way that seriously fucks with her head, but she’s grateful for any time she doesn’t have to be there, however much the contrast fucks with her head when she gets back

She goes through the motions whenever the situation calls for it—laughing at Sirius’s jokes, smiling and telling funny stories from the dental office whenever Andy and Ted ask.

(But it’s all an act—she’s a hollow shell, numb and apathetic.)

Most of her time is spent sleeping—late into the afternoon, the hours between family meals, any time she can convince Harry she’s reading and getting ahead on schoolwork, just—curled in bed.

Whenever sleep won’t come—whenever she can think coherently—she reaches for the water bottle on her nightstand, downing its contents until her mind is blunted enough to not have to think, to fall into drowsiness.

(It’s the easiest way to not have to _be_.)

Her replies to everyone who writes get shorter and shorter, tone colder and colder, but she cites being busy with research and school prep, and it’s believable enough that they almost believe her.

(She gets away with it ten times better because Draco’s summer is such hell he’s rarely able to check in, their conversations not long enough for him to confront her about what’s wrong.)

/

/

They’re still slowly working to make Grimmauld Place habitable and potentially serve as a safe house as needed; they’ve all received multiple injuries from the cursed objects Walburga had amassed over the years.

“By the way,” she tells Sirius, one night early on in the process. “Last night Draco told me Kreacher still speaks with his mother and Bellatrix, sometimes—Bellatrix wants to woo him over and use him against you.”

“Motherfucker, of course she does,” Sirius moans, an annoyed expression on his face. “Good to know—tell your boytoy I said thanks for the heads up.”

She raises her eyebrows, ignoring the commentary. “I did tell you weeks ago to start treating Kreacher better. Imagine if Draco hadn’t told you—who knows what Kreacher might’ve done to sabotage you.”

“Yes, well, he _did_ tell me, didn’t he, so now we don’t have to worry about the little beast!”

Hermione glares at the insult, and Sirius holds up his hands apologetically. “Okay, okay, I get it. But kitten, do keep in mind that Kreacher had a hand in quite a bit of my suffering, when this was my home. It’s not lightly that I direct my hatred towards him. _Someone _had to put the bit in my mouth and pour salt on my lacerations for her all those years—and he didn’t just do it because he was ordered to. He reveled in it.”

She bites her lip guiltily, not having considered exactly _why_ Sirius might be so awful toward the elf when he’s never been anything but kind to Winky and Dobby. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t—sorry. I should’ve assumed you had a reason. You’ve never been prejudiced historically.”

“It’s fine, kitten. I admit there are better ways for me to handle the situation.” He sighs, redoing the loose bun of his hair out of habit. “I’ll go ahead and lay some strict orders to prevent him divulging secrets and send him to work at Hogwarts, I know they can always use extra hands.”

Hermione smiles at him, softly squeezing his shoulder before returning her attention to cleaning out the broom cupboard before her.

They’ve made at least the first floor relatively safe by the morning of an Order meeting—with one exception.

“Can’t believe the cunt is managing to make my life hell even beyond the grave,” Sirius growls, shrugging apologetically when Harry winces at the vulgar language. “Sorry, pup, but the bitch deserves it.”

“It’s not like she’s saying anything we haven’t heard before,” Hermione rolls her eyes. “Words from a racist and abusive monster can’t hurt us. And just think—the more heated she gets, the more it means what we’re doing is working. I say we make her scream more just to spite the old bat.”

Sirius and Tonks burst out laughing, the young woman reaching to high five Hermione, her currently aqua hair catching the light.

Harry tilts his head, lips pursed at the offending wall. “Okay, I know there’s a permanent sticking charm so we can’t take it off, or anything. But—couldn’t we put something over her? Like if we covered her with a new tapestry wouldn’t it do the same thing?”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth, Sirius looking likewise dumbstruck. “I—yes, actually. That’s a brilliant idea.”

Tonks cracks up at the shock on both of their faces, her laugh fading into a small smile. “Right on, Harry. What kind of tapestry do you have in mind?”

“Oh—I mean, it’s not my house, and—”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Sirius says, throwing an arm around Harry, eyes taking on the determined glint they do whenever signs of Harry’s insecurities and ripples of childhood mistreatment peek through. “You’re my kid, so what’s mine is yours. And Remus and I already have it written in our wills that we’ll be leaving everything to you, anyway. What do you want to do with the wall?”

“I was thinking…well, a picture of the constellations would be symbolic, for the house of Black. Or—that photo, of the original Order?” He bites his lip, like he’s nervous Sirius will hate the idea. “It—it might be nice to have everyone we’ve lost along the way halfway here.”

“Brilliant idea, pup.” His godfather ruffles his hair. “I bet we could get someone to synthesize the images of the old and new Order, have everyone on at once. Take out the rat.”

“Oh, like photoshop?” Tonks asks. “My dad’s been working on integrating muggle and magic photography for years, I bet he’d be happy to help. And to tarnish Walburga’s memory.”

“Perfect,” Sirius beams; Harry reaches to pull Hermione nearer, and she leans her head on his shoulder to placate him.

“It still doesn’t feel real sometimes,” he whispers.

(that they have people who love them and value them—that this is their family, their lives.)

Hermione reaches to squeeze his hand in agreement.

/

The conversation about whether or not they’ll be allowed in Order meetings later that night is—volatile.

It’s the second reconvening of the order, but given that only a few essential members were present at the first it holds a ring of importance.

(Not to mention, unbeknownst to those around her, it’s the first time Hermione’s spent entirely sober in weeks.)

Many familiar faces trickle into Grimmauld Place, all nodding in appreciation of the temporary tapestry of the night sky hung near the entryway.

“Fleur!” Harry exclaims when the blonde enters alongside Bill; a tinkling laugh escapes her as she holds her arms out for the hug he’s catapulting himself into.

“ ‘Ello, ‘Arry! I’m so glad to see you.” She reaches for Hermione when he pulls away, pressing a double kiss to her cheeks. “And ‘ow are you, ‘ermione? I love ze ‘air—it suits you!”

“Oh, thank you! I’m better now that you all are here,” the younger girl teases. “How’s the life of a tournament champion?”

“Exhausting, but—I believe I am making progress wiz ze organization. Working with Remus has been phenomenal; I am so lucky ‘e agreed to be my partner. If you’re at all interested in an internship or remote work, let me know, yes? I would _love _to have your brain on board.”

Moody enters behind them, a nod to Harry and Hermione before he begins conversing in a hushed whisper with Tonks and Dumbledore in the kitchen.

The arrival of the rest of the Weasleys is evident when the noise level rapidly rises; Hermione gleefully accepts hugs from Ginny and the twins, waving to Percy and returning an awkward fist bump from Ron, who’s quickly drawn into a discussion about Quidditch with Harry and Charlie.

When Andy and Ted arrive, Percy’s entire head and neck flush, but he moves to greet them, stammering when he introduces them to his own parents; Molly is overjoyed, as is to be expected, and Arthur lights up and begins discussing all things muggle with Ted, who looks baffled but pleased to be able to share his experiences.

Others trickle in, Fred and George whispering the names of those Hermione has yet to meet as they pass by.

“Potter!” Oliver Wood shouts as he enters, voice resounding, the way athletes do during a game.

The yell makes both Harry and Hermione cringe a bit and curl inward.

(the way you do when you know to fear a raised voice, because raised voices become raised fists--)

The moment passes and they both force a smile, pretending they’re not rattled.

Fred beams when Oliver comes to stand beside him.

“Are you two public now, then?” Hermione asks, heart warm at the sight of Fred’s happiness.

Oliver nods, slipping his fingers through Fred’s. “Yep. I signed onto Puddlemere, so I have a secure job and income, and—"

Fred interrupts, “and in times like these there are bigger things for people to worry about than who athletes are getting off with.”

“Always so crude,” Oliver groans, earning a wink from his boyfriend.

Sirius calls out that dinner’s ready, and they all file into the dining room that’s been enlarged several times over to accommodate everyone; they’re seated at a round table Sirius had insisted on for the Arthurian symbolism of it all, and it’s—they’re all here for a dark purpose, but it’s still one of the most fun dinners Hermione’s ever had.

Once the kitchen is cleaned, Dumbledore straightens his posture at the head of the table. “Minevra and Severus are both unable to attend tonight, as well as several others, so as son as you all are ready we’ll begin.

Molly clears her throat. “Alrighty, kids—upstairs you go!”

Ron and Ginny sigh but begin to head upstairs; meanwhile, Hermione looks to Harry, who meets her eyes with a grimace.

(this is it, then.)

“Harry and I have a right to be here,” she declares, bracing herself for the onslaught of disagreement her statement will bring. “And given everything we’ve been through, we deserve to know what’s going on and have a voice in the steps that are being taken.”

Molly scoffs, gently smiling at Hermione. “Sweetheart, I understand you want to be included, but don’t be ridiculous. This is a war, and you’re children.”

“We might be young, but we’re the ones on the frontlines,” Harry argues, reaching for Hermione’s hand under the table to hide that his own is trembling with the instinctive fear that he still fears when disagreeing with adults. “Hogwarts is where the beginnings battle have already been fought. Or did everyone forget that I was attacked and witnessed multiple murders on the school grounds last year?”

The man who’d been introduced as Kingsley Shacklebolt raises his eyebrows, impressed, while Molly’s expression only grows more upset.

“Which is all the more reason you should be kept from further danger!”

“Ignorance won’t protect us from danger, it will only insure that we’re unprepared to face it.” Hermione’s entire body is tense, but she refuses to relent. “Can you imagine how much _worse _things could have been if we didn’t know about Barty Crouch last year? If Harry didn’t know what he was up against prior to the first two tasks? If we hadn’t known it was a basilisk second year, and looked in its eyes?”

Dumbledore clears his throat. “Miss Granger, be that as it may, you all are simply too young to have such sensitive information in your hands, and beyond that, it is not in your best interests to be part of the Order.”

“I don’t give a—”

Harry claps a hand over her mouth before she can say anything further about _exactly _how little she thinks of the headmaster’s opinion. “Quite frankly, sir, it’s our lives, we have the right to make these decisions. And don’t say we’re children—because we’re not. We haven’t been children for a long time, largely thanks to things that have happened on your watch.”

“And for you to say we shouldn't possess sensitive information when we’re the ones who stopped Voldemort from stealing a powerful object inside your school, the ones who closed the chamber of secrets, who figured out that Sirius was innocent, who figured out Barty Crouch—” her volume raises with each incident she recounts, until it’s nearly a yell that, commandsing the room.

Harry picks up right where she left off, in an equally righteous tone. “We have done nothing but help the Order’s cause since before it was even reconvened, we’ve kept students safe at _your_ school, we’ve provided invaluable intel, and we are _always _the first ones to be endangered. No one deserves to be a part of this more than us. And if you try to keep us out of this, we’ll keep the information we discover to ourselves going forward.”

Molly huffs, crossing her arms angrily as her cheeks grow even more red. “That doesn’t mean we’ll begin allowing children into war efforts! And Fred, George, I don’t know what you two think you’re still doing down here, go upstairs with your siblings.”

Both twins sigh, George turning to their mother first. “Mum, we love you, and we respect you, and we know you want what’s best for us.”

“But,” Fred picks up, “we’re of age, and we’re going to be a part of this, whether you want us to or not. We might still be in school, but we’re adults, and you can’t stop us from joining the Order.”

She sputters, but Arthur puts a hand on her arm, shaking his head with a grimace. “They’re right, Molls.”

Sirius clears his throat. “Honestly, I believe Harry and Hermione have every right to be here. As Harry’s guardian, I wholeheartedly give my permission, and while I may not be Hermione’s—”

“You're exactly right, you’re not hers, so you don’t get to exert your judgement—”

“Right, my parents aren’t here to give their judgement because they have _no legal rights_ in the wizarding world,” Hermione hisses, trying not to think about how laughable the idea of her parents being involved in her life is. “Because they’re _muggles_. And I am a _mudblood_ to the people we are fighting against—their entire aim is to eradicate my existence, to treat people like me as less than human, and they don’t give a _fuck _about whether or not I’m of age, they’ll kill me all the same.”

Dumbledore frowns. “That doesn’t mean—”

“You don’t get to tell me what it means!” she exclaims, fury racing through her veins (for so, so many reasons where this man who thinks he knows best is concerned). “You—all of you, with the exception of Ted—you don’t have _any _right to weigh in, because none of you are muggle born! You’ve never been there—you don’t know what we go through every day, how it impacts our entire experience in the magical world. And your lives aren’t the ones at stake! You’re fighting in this war because you think the future will be better if the Light wins—I’m fighting because if we lose I won’t _have _a future.”

They’re all quiet for a moment; Andy meets Hermione’s eyes, smirking proudly and giving the girl a wink, and Remus likewise nods his approval.

Moody clears his throat. “We’re wasting time arguing. Also, Potter has an invisibility cloak in his bag and Granger has muggle bugging devices in her pocket, they’re going to find a way to learn the information regardless. Seems to me if we allow them to take part they can at least be an asset.”

Hermione and Harry blush at the mention of their contingency plans, but hope blooms in their chest at someone not already on their side speaking up.

Dumbledore purses his lips, gaze flitting to the two of them; Hermione stares him down, raising an eyebrow to make it clear she has no intention of relenting.

The older man sighs. “Very well, then. You’ll be expected to take the same oaths of secrecy as the other Order members, and since you’re underage you’ll be assigned a more experienced member as a mentor for your first year.”

“As long as it’s not Snape,” Harry mutters under his breath.

\

McGonagall strolls through the floo one morning a couple days later, just a few hours before Hermione’s scheduled to head back to her parents’ for a few days, so she’s already in a state of mental dissociation.

“I heard you gave quite the speech at the meeting the other day.”

Hermione scowls, crossing her arms defiantly. “Yes, well, I wouldn’t have had to if they would’ve all been reasonable.”

“That fire of yours,” the older woman shakes her head, eyes sparkling. “It’s going to be a pleasure to watch you shake the world. Just be careful it doesn’t consume you.”

(_My own mind is likely to destroy me first_, Hermione resists the urge to respond.)

“What are you here for, Professor? I thought we weren’t scheduled to—that is, my letter to you about the intel wasn’t—”

“This isn’t about that,” McGonagall cuts her off before she can give herself away. “I’m here because I’ve been assigned to be your mentor for the next year. Convenient, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Hermione brightens. “That’s—wonderful news, really. There’s no one I look up to more. Do you know who Harry’s is?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt. Those of us who are senior members believe he could benefit from some…shall we say, non-Gryffindor influences. Andy and Ted have already done him a world of good.”

Hermione snorts, nodding in agreement. “Tell me about it. Maybe he’ll be able to teach him to be less hot-headed.”

The older woman sighs, eyes far away. “You know, everyone always thinks he’s like his father, with his looks and Quidditch and getting into so much trouble. But that temper, the sarcasm and playfulness…merlin, it’s pure Lily Evans.”

“Really?” Hermione asks curiously.

“Oh, yes. Those boys had the reputation for fooling around, because they took credit for their pranks, but in reality James was a worrywart who mostly tagged along to make sure Sirius never got himself hurt. Lily was…feisty, and goofy, and never took life too seriously.” The nostalgia on her face is almost painful to witness, and she forces a smile as she turns back to Hermione. “Forgive me, we have other matters to discuss.” Her eyebrows raise meaningfully.

Hermione immediately casts a silencing spell, before reaching into her bag for the parchment she’s been jotting notes on, spelled with an encoding charm and a notice-me-not, and charmed to only reveal itself to her or McGonagall. “The thing they’re after—Draco overheard them say it’s in the Department of Mysteries. They’ve all been instructed to maintain a low profile, to discredit Harry’s claim and convince the ministry not to seek them out, and allow Voldemort to move freely. And—they’re trying to plant someone at Hogwarts, again.”

McGonagall scowls. “That last one we knew about—we’ve been hearing the suggestions that have been offered up to and from the ministry. We’re working on a plan to counter them.”

Hermione nods, handing off the parchment for reference, so McGonagall can read it through thoroughly once before burning it.

The older woman eyes her shrewdly for a moment. “Are you doing alright, Hermione?”

“Yes of course,” she affirms with a smile.

(It doesn’t reach her eyes—none of them have, lately.)

/

“Winky?” Hermione calls, snuggled up against several pillows with a nest of blankets around her. It’s a day at her parents’ house, one that she’d particularly like to wash away.

The elf in question materializes before her, ears drooped with distress. She hurries to sit on the bed, a hand gently moving a lock of Hermione’s hair out of her face while she looks on with worry. “Yes, mistress?”

“I need another—I’m afraid I’m out again.”

  
Winky frowns. “Mistress, I is thinking you is not taking care of yourself. Winky can get you some food, maybe tea—or hot chocolate, Winky is knowing that’s your favorite.”

“Just the vodka, please, Winky.”

“But Mistress, you is not needing—”

“You don’t know what I need,” Hermione snaps, curling in on herself further. “No one does. I’m not begging your permission, I’m ordering you to bring me what I asked for.”

Winky’s eyes go wide, and she crosses her arms, jaw tight. “You can be mean all you wants. But I is knowing this isn’t you. And I is not going anywhere.”

Hermione laughs bitterly, eyes closed. “This isn’t me? You don’t know me, Winky. No one does, really. Even Draco and Harry…they have no idea.” She swallows heavily. “You’re sweet for caring, Winky. But I don’t deserve it.” Pulling the blankets higher, she burrows into the bed further without making eye contact. “The liquor, please, Winky.”

The elf frowns sadly, popping away and returning almost immediately with another of the familiar bottles.

Hermione takes another gulp, and lets her thoughts wash away before going back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my loves! Hope you’re all still doing alright. grateful for you beyond words now and always.
> 
> *chapter title from great plans by cloverton
> 
> Things have stabilized some on my end, and I’m already 2000 words into the next chapter, so update should come in the next few days!!
> 
> In the meantime, I’m distracting myself from the world when possible by rereading old beloved fics—currently rereading my all-time favorite, The Debt of Time, it’s in my bookmarks if you haven’t already read it, 10/10, owns my actual heart.
> 
> If you have any hermione-centric(down for most pairings), percabeth, bellarke, or most any twilight fic recommendations plz shoot them my way! like seriously, any that you love or make you feel something, i would love to have on my radar.
> 
> Take care, you lovely humans.


	16. I know we're not alright

“Harry, Hermione, get in here! Ted, Dora!” Sirius’s call rings through the hallways, likely magically amplified, and Hermione rolls her eyes at the theatrics but acquiesces.

Tonks is in their hall already, and Harry’s head peeks out of his room right next to hers.

“Well, then, place your bets,” Tonks whispers, waggling her eyebrows at both of them.

Hermione laughs, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “For him to sound this happy? Someone we hate is dead.”

“No, there’d be more gleeful singing,” Harry argues. “My guess is something with Uncle Moony—maybe his job, or werewolf rights policies.”

Tonks raises an eyebrow. “Noble attempts, but you’re both wrong—I’m betting Snape’s resigned from the Order.”

Harry snorts, and the three of them emerge into the living room, where Ted and Andy are already seated, a beaming Sirius and blushing Remus standing before them.

Sirius clears his throat, waving his arms dramatically. “Well! Now that you’re all here, we have an announcement to make. This dashing werewolf agreed to marry my rapscallion self.”

Remus flushes further, before continuing. “And then we went straight to the Ministry and got hitched.”

“Yay!” Harry cries, rushing forward to hug them both. “Oh, this is brilliant! Congratulations! Also—Tonks, Mia, pay up.”

Andy merely quirks an eyebrow. “It’s about time.”

“Lovely, you two,” Tonks congratulates them with a grin, reaching to high five Sirius. “You trapped a good one into the family, cousin. Remus—happy to have you magically bound to us forever.”

Remus laughs, expressing his thanks, bumping his elbow into Hermione. “You’re next, you know.”

“Merlin, don’t remind me I’m voluntarily joining these heathens, too.”

(She smiles, and congratulates them—and she’s objectively glad for them.)

(But she can’t feel it—the joy, the happiness, none of it’s there. All she can feel is nothingness.)

Ted claps his hands together joyfully. “We have to do something to celebrate! How long do we have before the two of you take a honeymoon?”

Sirius’s expression grows more serious. “We’ve decided to put it off until after the Voldemort threat is past. We’re not comfortable being out of the country while our kid is in danger.”

Guilt creeps up on Harry’s face, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Sirius narrows his eyes at him before he can get the words out. “Don’t you dare. If you try to say that you don’t matter you’re grounded till you’re thirty.” He presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “And besides, every day with Moony is a dream. We don’t need a special trip to know we love each other.”

“Or to invite us to your wedding—rude.” Tonks sticks out her tongue. “It’s fine. I’ll remember this.”

An apologetic smile forms on Remus’s face. “We love you, and we’re sorry you couldn’t come. But—we’ve always wanted it to be just the two of us, when the time came.”

“Which Prongs _loathed_, of course,” Sirius interrupts, eyes fond and faraway. “The prat couldn’t stand any time anything happened without him. Pouted for a week after not being invited on our first date.”

“To his credit, he wasn’t a hypocrite about it—always invited us along everywhere. The look on your mum’s face when she found out he offered to book us a room next door on their honeymoon…”

(Harry makes a face, but Tonks bursts out laughing and begs for details.)

/

/

It’s just a few weeks till term starts; Harry’s moaning and groaning about having to go to school and leave his family, and it makes Hermione’s heart sing—this boy used to think Hogwarts was the only place in the world he mattered, and now he feels happy enough here to not want to go back.

She’s sad to leave Tonks Manor, too—Harry’s family really does feel like her own, and it’s one of so few places she feels wholly safe and secure.

But then, the routine of Hogwarts is good for her too, and the distraction of classes, the ability to prove she belongs in this world.

(The knowledge that she’s safe, and far away; that Hogwarts is so entirely other from the rest of her life.)

They’re at breakfast one morning, Tonks relaying a hilarious story about Kingsley once being turned into a flower during a shift they had together at work; Hermione finishes eating and puts her head in its familiar spot on Harry’s shoulder.

She catches herself watching Sirius and Remus—the way they constantly have entire conversations through just facial expressions and body language, how instinctively they move relative to each other—it’s like gravity.

“Oh, would you look at that—they’re here!” Ted exclaims, joyfully moving to open the window and allow the two school owls inside.

She and Harry both rip open the envelopes hastily, her brow furrowing when something heavy drops onto the table.

Her breath catches when she picks it up—the badge glimmers in her palm. “How on earth—”

“What are you—” Harry peers over her shoulder, face lighting up at the sight. “Prefect? That’s brilliant, Mia! Congrats—god knows you deserve it.”

(Something in her chest pangs, wondering just how much they’d all think she deserves it if they knew everything about her.)

“How have I surrounded myself with such rule followers,” Sirius bemoans dramatically, narrowing his eyes at Remus like his influence was the deciding factor.

“Please,” Remus rolls his eyes at his husband. “We all knew Dumbledore only appointed me with the hope that I would reign the lot of you in—I was still quite the troublemaker, unfortunately. Which, given the number of Hogwarts rules Hermione has _already _broken, I don’t think you’re in too much danger of her becoming a stickler, either.”

Hermione laughs, crossing her arms. “I only break the ones that are ridiculous and morally unfounded. If I wanted to I could get away with a lot more—I choose to follow the majority.”

“At least _one _of you didn’t let me down,” Sirius teases, ruffling Harry’s hair fondly. “Pup, I’m very proud of you for carrying on the Marauder legacy.”

“Who do you think the other for Gryffindor is?” Harry wonders aloud, earning a frown from Hermione.

“Who even knows, with Dumbledore picking. I’m surprised it’s not you.”

“Thank god, honestly,” he sighs at the prospect. “After the hell that was last year—every year so far, really—all I want is one normal year, and no responsibilities except Quidditch.”

Remus arches an eyebrow. “Forgetting something?”

Harry ponders before blushing. “Oh, and classes before everything else, of course.”

“Much better.”

The two of them begin clearing the table, Hermione sticking the last of the dishes in the sink before padding off to the guest room that serves as hers.

Shortly thereafter, a knock sounds against her door, the tap audible over the music in her earbuds as she leafs through a book. “Come in.”

Sirius steps inside, lips briefly pulling up into a smile; he’s careful to leave the door open, moving to take a seat on the edge of her bed, across from where she’s curled in an armchair.

“How are you doing, kitten?”

“Good!” Hermione replies, smile not reaching her eyes. “Excited for term to start, of course. How are you?”

He ignores the question, eyebrows scrunching with concern. “Hermione, I—I can tell something’s wrong. You don’t have to tell me about it, but…we both know we’re kindred spirits, kitten, and I know we’re not alright. You’re not yourself, love—you’re so quiet, but I know your silence is a deadly sound.”

Her heart drops through her stomach and she stiffens, fists clenching defensively. “It’s—you don’t—where’s Harry?”

“He just left to get lunch with Dudley, again.”

A smile breaks through her anxiety at the comment—the cousins had met up earlier in the summer, and while the encounter was a bit awkward, Harry came home unable to stop smiling; they’ve been keeping in contact semi-regularly ever since.

“I’m so glad that they’re—"

“Don’t avoid the subject.”

Her lip trembles. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Kitten, you’re on edge every time you come back from your place, you flinch if anyone but Harry touches you, and you’re becoming an alcoholic.”

She gapes, “I am _not_—why the hell would you say that?”

“Takes one to know one,” he says unapologetically. “Accio liquor.” A full bottle flies from the back of her drawer of sweaters, another snaking out from under her mattress, and Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Vodka, really? I was always more of a whiskey or bourbon type, myself.”

Hermione’s eyes begin welling with tears. “I can explain that, it—"

“I don’t want to hear whatever excuses you’ve been practicing; you’re brilliant, so I’m sure they’re perfectly believable, but I know better. I was the same way when my own mind was hell. When everything was wrong and I wanted to die. When I felt alone in the world and my parents were hurting me.” He gives her such a tender, worried expression she wants to flee. “Who’s hurting you, kitten?”

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut tight, abandoning the pretense of her book and pulling her knees to her chest. “Please just leave it alone, Sirius. I don’t—it’s none of your business.”

Sirius frowns, expression worried and sad.

(To know so well the darkness of one’s soul and know that no amount of saying the right thing can fix it—)

“You’re a part of this family and the well-being of my family is my business. I know it’s hard to let people be there for you, to open up about what you’re going through, but I—”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps, tone acidic. “Just—leave me alone! Find someone else to give counseling to.”

(She wants to scream and cry and shove him, wants to lock herself in the room alone and keep the world out and just _sleep_ and—)

“Hermione—”

“Please, Sirius. Please leave it alone.” Her expression is no longer angry, just—sad and scared. “Please just leave it alone.”

(It’s so _familiar_, and Sirius _knows _why she’s lashing out, and he _knows _how important it feels to hide what you’re going through while you’re in it—it kills him.)

“Okay, love. It’s—whatever’s best for you.” He holds up both hands, gesturing that he’ll leave it be. “But whatever you need, I’m here. Even if you don’t want to talk about it, but you just need—anything. You’re not alone.”

She doesn’t respond, merely stays curled into a ball until he leaves, when she lets out a shuddering breath that turns into a muffled sob against the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

Sirius means well, she knows he does.

(But she feels like a ticking time bomb, ready to scream at the slightest provocation.)

However much they all claim to want to be there for her, they can never know—she can’t even bear the thought of it.

(the shame is already too great.)

There’s not long for her to worry over Sirius’s intervention, though; an hour later Harry comes racing into the house, an unfamiliar blond boy with him looking extremely pale.

“Mia! Pads! Uncle Pads! Moony! Aunt Andy! Help!”

His calls echo throughout the house, and Hermione rushes from her room immediately, nearly crashing into Sirius in the front room.

They both swarm Harry immediately, hugging first and asking questions second; when Remus emerges onto the scene, he gravitates towards the other boy with a soothing smile.

(No one not paying attention would see the subtle flaring of his nostrils, the way his eyes flash around the room to scan for threats, how his body stays tense until he’s ascertained Harry’s okay.)

“You must be Dudley. I’m Harry’s uncle, Remus—the one currently attacking him is Sirius. I’m sorry for whatever has the two of you so shaken up.” He eyes Dudley up and down, before looking to Harry once more as if to check something, his face grim with knowing.

Reaching into his sweatshirt pocket, he pulls out a chocolate bar, breaking it in half and holding out half to Dudley, tapping Hermione until she passes the other to Harry.

Hermione raises an eyebrow at the former professor. “You just keep candy in your pockets all the time, then? Who are you, Willy Wonka?”

The comment earns a snort from Dudley, Harry’s own lips twitching towards a smile.

They all gravitate towards the couches, and Remus frowns as he turns to Harry. “Why do you both look like you’ve had a run in with dementors?”

“Probably because we did,” Harry mumbles.

Sirius tenses up, meeting Remus’s eyes over Harry’s head, while Hermione pulls her brother into a hug, worry etched in the lines of her face.

“What the hell happened, pup?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Harry says, voice muffled by Hermione’s shoulder. “We finished eating and decided to walk to the park down the block while we talked and then they were just—_there_, out of nowhere, in the middle of the day. Two of them.”

“What are they?” Dudley asks, still looking stricken. “I—I thought I’d never be happy again.”

Remus grimaces. “Dementors are—dark creatures, primarily used as prison guards in the wizarding world. They prey on your emotions, grow stronger with the very despair they cause. For them to be in the middle of the city, attacking children in broad daylight…”

“Thank merlin you know the Patronus charm,” Sirius shakes his head, gripping Harry’s shoulder tightly. “Good job, Moony.”

His husband gives a tight lipped smile while rubbing at his temples. “I did hope he wouldn’t have cause to use it again for non-communication purposes. I suppose I should know better than to be so optimistic by now.”

Dudley sucks in a rattling breath, shakily getting to his feet. “I should go. Mum and Dad are supposed to be home soon, and if they find out I was with Harry…well, you know how they are.”

“I’ll take you,” Remus offers, not trusting Sirius to refrain from sticking around long enough to murder Harry’s aunt and uncle. “We can apparate, or if you’re more comfortable I do have a car.”

“Whichever. I—uh, don’t really have anything against magic, given that it saved my life today, so—whatever’s easier.”

He hugs Harry on his way out, waving to Sirius and Hermione before he and Remus disappear.

“Do you think Voldemort had something to do with it?” Hermione voices the question they’re all thinking.

Sirius frowns, shaking his head. “It’s too big—he’s trying to fly under the radar, and according to McGonagall’s spy they want to discredit all of Harry’s claims that he’s back.”  
“Which is exactly what happens if they don’t believe there really were dementors in the middle of the city—they all think Harry regularly comes up with tall tales, and even less people believe he was telling the truth about the tournament.”

“I can’t imagine how they’d—”

He’s interrupted by an owl tapping on the window; Harry moves to let it in, using the soft voice he reserves specifically for pets, though the official-looking owl seems largely impervious.

“It’s for me.” He carefully opens the envelope, worrying at his lip; his skin loses all color the further he reads.

“Harry?” Hermione asks gently, moving to lay a hand delicately on his arm.

“They—they’re taking me to trial. Before the Wizengamont. For underage use of magic, and—in front of a muggle.” His eyes begin welling with tears. “How can they—are there not laws about self-defense? Like in muggle policy?”

Hermione scowls, crossing her arms righteously. “There absolutely are. There’s no way they should be charging you for this—and to take the matter before the Wizengamont bypasses about five levels of procedure—”

“Mafalda and I will be having fucking words.” Sirius’s voice is ice, the anger vibrating from his body. “Tomorrow morning, pup, you and I are going to the Ministry to remind them _exactly_ who they’re dealing with and how they will handle the situation—putting you on trial, the fucking audacity.”

“They said I could be expelled.” He’s pale, trembling, eyes so wide and scared. “I—what if they—”

“They can’t, Harry—it goes against everything in their policy, and Sirius will go in, and if we need to we’ll contact Dumbledore and McGonagall and Moody to come to your defense.”

“But what if—what if I’m sent to Azkaban?” They all go silent, for a moment, and Harry begins to spiral. “I—I don’t want to bring it up lightly, because—well, you know, but—it’s not like I’m not guilty—I _did _cast the patronus, and in front of muggles.”

Hermione squeezes his hand reassuringly, and Sirius bends his knees until he’s eye level with his godson.

“Listen to me, son. You are going to be okay. You will return to Hogwarts, you will not be held accountable for the shitty situations others have put you in, so help me god. As for Azkaban…I will die before that happens.”

Harry lurches forward to hug him, still shaky, and Sirius holds him to his chest the way he hasn’t since he was a baby. “You’re not alone, pup. You will never be alone again.”

/

The next day, Sirius storms into the kitchen in a mood, his most intimidating formal robes donned and an apprehensive Harry trailing behind him.

“I hear you two are coming to work with me,” Tonks says brightly; despite both his’ uncles' reassurance that there’s not a chance in hell of him being penalized, Harry is visibly terrified.

“I’m coming too,” Remus informs her, mug of coffee gripped tightly. “Someone needs to keep this heathen from ending up with a restraining order from Mafalda.”

“Oh, I’ll be going right over Mafalda’s head, straight to Amelia Bones, and Cornelius himself if Amy doesn’t fix this bullshit.”

The fury in his eyes, the righteous anger and hatred toward those who’ve threatened his kid—he’s the closest to a good father figure Hermione and Harry have both ever had, but it scares even them.

(And evidently the Ministry too; when they get home late that evening, a much calmer Harry curls up next to Hermione in her bed and relays the day’s events—Sirius flexing his status as the head of one of the most ancient and wealthy wizarding families in the country, Remus rattling off protocols that were violating regarding the legal rights of a minor, a toad-like woman screeching and frowning but being ignored as a nervous Cornelius Fudge hastily issued an apology when Sirius threatened to throw political sway and funding to Dumbledore when the Minister goes up for re-election.)

“I really thought they might snap my wand, Mia,” he whispers, and she rubs his back gently.

“They’d have to fight me first,” she vows. “And even if they did—I’d let you use mine. Or get you an umbrella like Hagrid’s for the pieces. Or we’d run away to another country.”

“I’d never ask you to—”

“You wouldn’t have to. Family, Harry.”

He reaches to squeeze her hand. “I—I’d do anything for you too.”

“I know you would.”

Sirius comes in to say goodnight; he transforms into Padfoot the make them laugh, loving the innocent smiles that he so rarely gets to see on both their faces.

(Remus finds them the next morning, all sleeping like the dead atop the pile of of blankets, Harry and Hermione’s hands tangled in Padfoot’s fur.)

/

In the midst of dementors and Order meetings, of secrecy and spiraling—having the boyfriend over to meet the family is a welcome distraction, for everyone.

The doorbell rings, and Andy claps her hands together with excitement. “Finally!”

Tonks rolls her eyes even as she moves towards the door. “You’ve met Percy already, Mum. Multiple times. There’s no reason for you to be this excited about dinner.”

“Well I couldn’t properly interrogate him all the other times, could I? We were in public! Today’s the day I get to actually get the measure of his character,” the older woman muses, looking far too eager for her daughter’s liking.

“Don’t worry, Dora, your mother will be on her best behavior—won’t you, love? He’s a Weasley—the full Black intimidation would scare him away.”

Andy sighs at her husband’s pointed look, but nods in reluctant agreement.

Tonks lets Percy in, greeting him with a warm kiss before looping an arm through his. “Hi, hon’. Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” He’s visibly nervous, but the love in his eyes undeniable when he looks at her.

“You’ve met my mum before, and then this is my dad.”

Ted smiles warmly, the kindness in his face enough to relieve a bit of the tension in Percy’s muscles. “Ted Tonks—wonderful to officially meet you, young man.”

“You as well, sir. And Mrs. Tonks—er, Andromeda,” he corrects at Andy’s glare, blushing bashfully as he holds out a boquet. “These are for you. I’ve a bottle of wine, as well, as—erm, to thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“You’ve never given _me_ flowers!” Tonks says with mock outrage, a hand dramatically pressed to her chest. “What kind of soul mate are you, anyway?”

Percy’s eyes roll, and he bumps her shoulder with his fondly. “You would accidentally kill them within an hour.”

“Too true,” she agrees with a grin. “Kitchen’s just through here—Harry and Hermione are finishing set the table, and I believe Remus and Sirius are tracking down some elf wine in the wine cellar.”

“Dora said you don’t have any food allergies, so I’ve gone ahead and made a chicken risotto, and apple pie for dessert,” Ted tells him. “But if there’s anything else you’d like, or if you’d preer other sides, you’re welcome to anything in the pantry or fridge, of course.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you, you didn’t need to go to so much—”

Tonks elbows him, and he blushes, clearing his throat. “I mean, thank you so much.”

“No trouble at all, dear boy.”

Andy smiles, linking her fingers through Ted’s. “You’re sleeping with our daughter and you’ll be part of the family eventually, it’s no trouble at all.”

Percy chokes on his own spit, but Tonks is entirely unbothered, carefully patting her boyfriend’s back.

Ted gives a world-weary sigh, turning to Andy. “Andromeda, we’ve discussed this.”

“I know, I know,” she pouts, resigned in a way that makes it clear they’ve had this conversation a million times before. “No casual mentions of sex in front of guests until they’ve been over at least five times. Sorry, Percy, dear. Ted and Remus say I have no sense of _boundaries_,” she rolls her eyes, as though it’s the most preposterous notion she’s ever heard.

They file into the kitchen, where Sirius and Remus are already seated, looking confused, while Hermione and Harry are both sitting on the floor laughing so hard they can’t breathe.

“What’d we miss?” Ted asks, looking every bit the exasperated suburban dad.

“He-the-we—” Hermione collapses into giggles, Harry’s own laughter bringing tears to his eyes.

“Don’t bother,” Remus says dryly. “They’ve been unable to get words out for five minutes. We were sitting right here the whole time and we still have no idea what set them off.”

“H-hi Percy,” Harry manages to get out, doing his best not to look at Hermione. “Good to see you.”

A snort escapes Hermione, and then they’re both cracking up all over again.

“Alright, time to eat, you two. You can resume…whatever this is—after dinner.”

They both acquiesce as Remus asks, taking their seats and smothering the last wisps of laughter.

And it’s—such a wholesome, easy dinner, such happy and warm energy despite everything happening in the world at the moment.

Tonks is telling some story that has Percy blushing and Andy and Sirius grinning, and Harry catches Hermione’s eye—they both shake their heads in disbelief, that this is their life.

(That this is their _family_.)

Remus clears his throat. “I’ve a bit of an announcement for you all—well, I suspect Tonks and Percy already know, being that they work at the ministry, but I’ve been waiting until it was official to tell the rest of you infidels.”

Hermione crosses her arms, leaning close to Harry in trepidation. “On a scale of the chamber of secrets being opened to Voldemort returning, how bad is it?”

“Neither, it—this is _good_ news.” He sighs when both Harry and Hermione stare at him with narrowed eyes, disbelieving. “Honestly, you two, it’s possible for good things to happen.”

“Debatable.”

“Not helping, Pads.”

“Sorry, love.”

Remus brushes back a lock of hair that’s flopped into his face. “As you know, there are a few vacancies at Hogwarts. I reapplied to be professor for Defense, of course; however, given the events that have taken place at Hogwarts over the last few years, the Minister felt it…pertinent for such a potentially dangerous course to be taught by someone Ministry approved—”

“A Ministry plant to make sure students aren’t informed about what’s happening in the world, you mean,” Hermione grumbles.

“Bet it’s the curse,” Harry whispers. “If he got Defense again he’d have had it for more than a year.”

“—and SO that position,” Remus continues, narrowing his eyes at them, “has been given to a ‘trustworthy’ member of the Wizengamont.”

“Moony my love you said this was_ good _news.”

“It is, if the three of you would be quiet long enough to let me _finish_.”

Tonks grins. “You’re such a dad, Remus.”

The werewolf rubs at his temples with a sigh. “Dumbledore was insistent that I rejoin the staff, however, especially given last year’s events, and suggested that—”

“If it’s something Dumbledore wanted, shouldn’t we do the opposite?” Harry questions.

“True,” Sirius snorts, holding out a fist for Harry to bump.

“Charms, you ingrates!” Remus practically yells. “I’m going to be taking over charms.” He downs his class of wine after making the declaration amidst the gasps of delight.

“Oh, Remus, that’s brilliant!” Hermione congratulates, a genuine smile on her face. “I’ve been so worried about not learning as much from Flitwick’s replacement—he was one of the most accomplished wizards I’ve ever met, and one of the best teachers we’ve had, may he rest in peace—but you’ll do a fantastic job”

“Thank you, Hermione.”

Harry stands to hug him, face full of relief, hesitating before quietly saying. “I—I think I’ll actually be able to breathe, this year.”

(Feel safe in his own school, knowing someone who loves him is looking out, rather than just an old man who keeps using him as a means to an end.)

“That’s brilliant, love.” Sirius beams. “Just think of how much I can bother Minnie coming to visit you.”

Remus sighs yet again, palm to his face. “I’ll be fired before I’ve even started.”

Draco has a brief bit of respite, so ink is blooming all along Hermione’s skin, and she keeps turning away from the tablet to respond to him—which, given the circumstances, they’re all understanding of.

Sirius grins when he catches her smiling down at her wrist, stroking the familiar handwriting. “Loverboy doing alright then, kitten?”

She blushes a the table’s attention turns to her, everyone but Percy knowing the identity of her soul mate. “Yeah. L—his father is out today, so he’s free to talk for a bit.”

Andy winks at Ted. “Forbidden young love—doesn’t it make you miss when we were young?”

“Yes, the good old days when your family was actively trying to kill me and crucio you. Why on earth wouldn’t I miss that?”

“Not _all _of my family—you know Cissa has always been supportive And you know it was exciting even though it was terrible, Teddy, don’t even deny it. That’s when we fell in love. When we found out Dora was on the way.”

Harry groans, putting his face onto the table dramatically. “You’re all in love and I’m alone, I get it.”

Hermione snorts at the theatrics, and Sirius makes a face but puts a hand on his godson’s shoulder. “You never do talk about your soul mate, pup. What’s the deal there?”

A tiny smile graces Harry’s face, blush alighting his cheeks. “It’s a girl. She—we don’t talk a ton, but regularly. She’s really cool. And a witch, but—we haven’t met yet; she has a lot of belief in…destiny, or whatever, so she doesn’t want to arrange to meet or anything, says it’ll happen whenever it’s supposed to.”

“Of _course_ she believes in divination nonsense,” Hermione grumbles, but something about the phrasing of it all feels familiar.

(Something deep down says she’s heard it before.)

“Not that I really have time for a girlfriend, what with all the attempts on my life and stopping murderers at Hogwarts, and all, so maybe it’s for the best.”

The whole table groans at the reminder; Tonks flicks a spoonful of mashed potatoes at him, and it all descends into happy chaos.

(Some of the last they’ll have of it for a while.)

/

/

Hermione returns from her parents’ for what they’ve allowed to be the last time for the summer—she’s dissociative and numb, but almost feels like she can breathe, knowing she won’t have to go back till Christmas at the earliest.

(And she’s sixteen soon—just one more year, and then never again.)

Remus and Tonks are at work, so Harry, Hermione, and Sirius are at Grimmauld Place, slowly working through the upstairs rooms, gradually getting rid of the dirt and doxies and hexes.

She and Harry run downstairs to grab sandwiches and snacks for the three of them; it takes ten minutes, but on their way back up they can hear Sirius sobbing.

They break into a run, worried something’s hurt him, only to find him in the drawing room, collapsed on the floor, his entire body convulsing with pain.

“Sirius, what—”

“Mia, look,” Harry whispers, pointing to the other side of the room; a pale body that looks like his is lying still on the floor, a trickle of blood flowing outward.

(clearly dead.)

And standing above him, another person that looks like him, except older, and—

(His eyes are _hazel_.)

_“How could you, Sirius?! You were supposed to protect him! You let him die just like you let me and Lily die—it’s all **your **fault!”_

Sirius’s fists are clenched so tightly the knuckles are snow white, fingers tightly gripping a feather duster and a locket he’d seemingly pulled from the cupboard he’s keeled over in front of.

“What the hell,” Hermione breathes, stepping forward. “Sirius, this can’t be real, please—”

But as she steps forward, it recognizes her instead; James and Harry’s corpse disappear, replaced by a familiar door, the knob quietly turning—

(she knows this all too well.)

The door opens, and she’s frozen—

(_she’s always frozen_)

—and he walks through, and he’s smiling, that _smile _that makes her _sick_—

And there’s no way it’s really him, she’s in the magical world, her logical brain _knows_ he can’t possibly be here, wasn’t here just a moment ago—

(—but it looks like him and he’s moving towards her and it’s happened a million times before so why _wouldn’t_ it happen now—)

_“There’s my good girl,”_ he says, and she’s curling inward and she can’t breathe—

(she thought she was safe here, but she should know better—she’s never been safe)

Far away she hears Harry say _“Riddikulus!” _and she knows that means something but she can’t think about it, can’t think about anything, can’t breathe and everything hurts—

“You’re okay, Mia. He’s not here. Just breathe—he’s gone, you’re okay, I’m here.”

(Harry—Harry’s voice.)

She opens her eyes, and Harry’s there, and there’s nothing but them and Sirius and a pile of dust in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! All my love your way, as always.
> 
> *title from Come Around by Papa Roach
> 
> So thing are HAPPENING—more of this//talking//healing to come soon. Next chapter in the next few days. 
> 
> I really intended all of summer to be one chapter and somehow it’s become three??? Who am i
> 
> If you’re bored I just posted a Jily one-shot I’d love to hear your thoughts on—it’s sad fluff set at the beginning of the war, if you’re in the mood for that. Will likely become a two- or three-shot—who knows.
> 
> Thank you for all of the fic recs you’ve sent—I’m really enjoying the ones I’ve checked out so far! Feel free to keep them coming.
> 
> much love. take care of yourselves. xo


	17. we're sleepless and lost

The room is quiet, for a moment.

She doesn’t meet Sirius or Harry’s eyes—without looking she knows Sirius’s face is dark with grim understanding.

(_this _is what she was hiding, why she refused to speak about it, why—)

“Mia,” Harry says softly—so, so softly.

She runs.

Out of the room, through the floo to Tonks manor, past Ted, past where Tonks and Andy sit watching a movie, smiles morphing into frowns asking if she’s okay—

Into her room, locks the door, clambers into bed and buries herself under a heap of blankets—

(it’s not even cold but she needs to feel protected and separate and closed off from the world, the weight of the many layers a reminder that she’s alive.)

She tugs out her vodka and begins taking long pulls of the burning liquid, regardless of the fact that it’s barely past noon; she can’t handle this, can’t handle life, needs to not _feel_—

She falls asleep, eventually; wakes a few hours later.

“Winky?” she croaks; within thirty seconds the elf is there.

“Oh, poor Mistress,” Winky says gently. “You is having rough day. Can Winky bring Mistress tea?”

The elf looks so sad—worried, Hermione’s sure, that she’ll ask for more alcohol.

(Not now—not yet.)

“Yes, please, Winky. And—Advil, if you can.”

“Okay.” Winky bites her lip nervously. “Miss Tonks has been asking I to tell her when you is awake, Mistress—she wants to bring in your dinner.”

Hermione’s brows pull together in confusion. “Andy?” Winky shakes her head. “Oh. Dora?”

“Yes, Mistress. She is—she is putting up a shield to keep Masters Harry and Sirius from coming to break down the door. They wants to comfort Mistress, but Miss Tonks says Mistress needs space and will talk to them when she’s ready.”

“Oh.” She swallows, moving to a sitting position and pulling her knees to her chest. “That’s—nice. She can bring the dinner, then, that’s—that’s fine. But—just her, for now, please.”

Winky nods before popping away; a few minutes later, there’s a gentle knock on her door.

Hermione waves her wand to unlock it, and Winky steps inside carrying a tea tray, Tonks right behind her with a smile and a carton of ice cream.

“I thought you were bringing dinner?”

Tonks’s lips quirk upward. “You’ve had a bad day. I think you deserve ice cream for dinner.”

A broken laugh escapes her. “Percy’s going to pull his hair out if the two of you have kids.”

“Don’t I know it. Poor boy isn’t ready.” They sit in silence for a moment. “Harry and Sirius are worried, by the way, although I’m sure you guessed as much. They want to see you whenever you’re ready.”

Hermione bites her lip. “Winky said you were keeping them out?”

“Yeah, I—” The older woman sighs, seemingly searching for words as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “After something like…well, agency is the most important thing for you to have right now. Control over your own life.”

She swallows. “They told you.”

“No, actually, they didn’t have to. I—I suspected.” Tonks grimaces. “Some things…you just know, if you’ve been there. You can just—tell, when someone else has. You know.”

“Yeah,” Hermione agrees, because she _does _know—

(because as much as Pansy Parkinson acts like a bitch, Hermione’s seen her face when someone sneaks up behind her)

(as little as she’s ever interacted with Penelope Clearwater, she’s seen the other girl’s emotions go cold at the mention of her former best friend)

(as much as she dislikes Zacharias Smith, she’s seen his attempts to drown out the memories same as her)

(_you_ _know_.)

“It’s different, for me,” Tonks says hesitantly. “I think you and Sirius have a lot more in common in terms of—prolonged trauma, and shitty family that—well. Sorry, I’m—clumsy with my feet and even clumsier with my words. But—from what I’ve guessed, anyway, I think your experience has been—different, than mine. And it was only once, for me, which—”

Which, Hermione can see—Tonks has an easy time trusting people, has different hang ups than she does.

(doesn’t have the same resentment of older women despite them not being the perpetrator, but because she knows they’ll stand by and let it happen and somehow that’s almost _worse_—)

“Anyway. You don’t have to talk to me about it, or anything. I just—wanted you to know I get it. Differently, but—still. I get it, and you’re family, and I love you, and I’m here if there are things that you need you don’t want to explain.”

“I love you. Thank you. I—not yet, but—someday, I might take you up on it.”

Tonks squeezes her hand with understanding. “You want Harry now?”

She nods hurriedly, and Tonks smiles gently before exiting the room.

Hermione pulls the swaths of blankets tighter, sipping at her tea before reaching for the ice cream.

A moment later, Harry pads inside the room, crawling up beside her; she holds out the spoon in offering, and he grins, pointing his wand at it and saying, _“Geminio”_, smiling proudly and grabbing the replica.

“You’ve been practicing,” she says with a smile. Then, “I’m surprised Sirius isn’t with you.”

Harry winces, swallowing the mouthful of ice cream before replying. “Sirius is…breaking things.”

“He’s doing _what_? Why?”

“He…well, I think it’s a substitute for breaking _his _face. Or spine. And…I mean, Sirius thinks of you as—some weird combination of sister and daughter. So the fact that someone has—hurt you, like that—he feels like he let you down.”

Hermione bites her lip worriedly. “He shouldn’t hold himself responsible—there’s nothing he could’ve done. It’s been—it started before we even knew he existed.”

Harry’s expression grows pained, his fists instinctively clenching.

(She’s said too much, she thinks.)

The look on his face is just—devastated, in a way that’s painful.

(_This_, this shame and pain, this is why she never told.)

(That and the fear she wouldn’t be believed, anyway.)

“Your uncle?” Harry asks quietly, seeking confirmation.

Her head snaps upward, entire body tense. “How did you—”

“You—you only ever mention him if you have to, it’s always been clear that you…hate him, or something. And—the boggart—he looked a bit like your dad, but—not quite.”

She swallows heavily.

Him knowing—it’s both a weight off her chest and a terrible, terrible burden, a heaviness in her gut she doesn’t know how to handle.

(_Don't say the word_, she begs silently. _Please, please don't say it.)_

_(That godforsaken word that makes her insides curl.)_

Ink crawls across the back of her hand, and before Harry even gets the words out she knows what he’s going to say.

“How does Draco—”

“He doesn’t,” she interrupts hastily. “And you can’t tell him, Harry. Please.”

“I—I mean, of course not, Mia. That’s not my place. It’s your decision. But…I think it would be good for you.” Harry takes the now empty ice cream carton and sets it on the nightstand, turning to face her more fully. “And he worries. We’ve—we met up last year, to talk about whether or not we should have an intervention, when you were…struggling, close to break. He would be able to be there for you better—”

“I just _can’t_, Harry,” she insists, lip trembling. She reaches for the liquor, again, head pounding (hair of the dog), and doesn’t flinch when Harry makes a face. “Don’t look at me like that—I can’t talk about this sober. It’s too—too much. It hurts.”

They don’t move for a moment, silent and still except for her sipping from the bottle before holding it out to him in offering.

He scrunches up his nose but accepts it nonetheless, coughing when he takes the first sip. “Eugh. God, that’s awful. I don’t know how you and Viktor like this stuff.”

“It’s not about liking it, it’s about—muting the world, for a little while.”

Harry gives her a look, because they both know she uses it for much more than just a little while, but—today of all days is not the time. His lips pull into a frown when she doesn’t move to respond to the words on her skin. “Are you not gonna answer Draco?”

Hermione fidgets, pulling the blankets around her tighter without meeting his eyes. “Not right now. I—” she hesitates, but—this is _Harry_.

If she can’t share her worst moments with him she can’t share them with anyone.

“Whenever I’ve been thinking about—or my uncle has just—I—” she cringes at the words and thoughts in her own head. “It makes me feel like I’ve cheated on Draco. And it’s—hard to talk to him, for a bit after, because I just feel so—_guilty _and ashamed and he has no idea that I’ve been—with someone other than him.”

And it—god, it makes Harry want to vomit, that she’s been hurt and violated and somehow feels guilty about it, that she feels like she’s doing wrong by the guy she loves more than anything because of the way someone else is breaking her—

(And he gets it, the shame and guilt that comes with abuse, of course he does—he’s _been_ there, even still he struggles to reconcile himself with innocence and goodness.)

(But it’s different when it’s someone else, when it’s his sister, and when it’s a different kind of violence that makes him want to commit murder without hesitation—)

“I know nothing I say will make you stop feeling that way,” he says softly. “But it really isn’t your fault—not at all, no way in hell. And Draco would never want you to feel that way; he loves you so much it’s disgusting, and nothing in this life or the next would change that, you know?”

“Since when are you so good with words?” she mumbles, eyes beginning to flutter closed.

Harry’s cheeks darken, and he feels his ears warm with the blush. “I, uh—my soul mate has been sending me different poems and quotes some days that she likes. I think they’re rubbing off a bit.”

“I’d say so.” Her voice is so soft he has to lean in to hear it. “Harry, will you—can you stay? Just till I fall asleep. I hate—alone.” The words blur together, her exhaustion and the alcohol swirling together in the perfect storm.

(A million memories come to Harry’s mind, of countless nights Hermione had asked him to leave the light on when he left the room, racing to wake her in the morning only to find layer after layer of impenetrable locking spells on her door, her panic when Crookshanks was missing and inability to sleep without him in her room—)

(her soft whisper that she hates the dark.)

“Of course, Mia. Anything you need. Always.”

(He doesn’t leave her side until she wakes.)

/

She doesn’t re-emerge from her room until two days later, though Harry has spent as much of that time with her as she’ll allow.

Remus is making a late brunch, and he doesn’t mention recent events but piles extra bacon on her plate because he knows she loves it.

And it’s—she feels nauseous, knowing that they know, knowing that the dark secret she’s held for so long is out in the open.

But they don’t bring it up; Andy tells a funny story about Narcissa from when they were kids, and no one comments on Hermione being quieter than usual.

“Oh, also, Andy,” Sirius exclaims, jumping from his seat and returning to the room a moment later with something shiny in his hand. “This was at Grimmauld Place—something of my mother’s left with the rest of her rubbish, I guess. It’s slytherin, beautiful, and fancy, so I thought you might like it.”

Andy’s answering grin is wicked. “And that she would roll over in her grave if she knew I were wearing it?”

“That’s my personal favorite part, yes.”

“I do so love the thought of enraging her ghost. Hand it over, then—what is it?”

Sirius reaches across the table to pass it to her, but before the object can change hands Remus and Tonks growl and cry out respectively.

“What the hell is that?” Tonks demands, wand drawn and pointed at Sirius’s fist.

“Bloody hell, it’s just a locket! Gold with a green serpent looking S on the front I assume stands for Slytherin.” He looks between the two of them incredulously. “What’s the matter with you two?”

“Something is—off about it,” Remus says through clenched teeth. “It smells—wrong. Almost like a person.”

“Well I’m sure the old bat wore it at one point, Moony, if some of her scent is lingering—”

“No! It’s not like that. I smell remainder scents every day. This is something else. It’s almost—human like, the scent, but not quite.”

“It exudes dark magic,” Tonks declares, expression severe. “From its very core. The darkest I’ve ever felt.”

Sirius purses his lips, looking unconvinced. “Are you sure it’s not a remnant from an old curse of my mother’s, or—”

“I am a fucking Auror.” She’s not yelling—she doesn’t have to, her voice icy and razor sharp. “Everyone forgets that part, because I’m clumsy and goofy, but I am a damn good one. Detecting dark magic and determining whether it is within a passable range or not is a requirement of my job. I constantly have mental shields up and scan my immediate surroundings for any that I can sense. Floo Alastor if you don’t believe me—hell, floo Dumbledore. Whatever that thing is, it’s—not right.”

All the adults begin arguing over who they should ask, what it could be, the best way to proceed without being harmed.

“I think—” Hermione begins, but they can’t hear her over each other, and even if they could who knows if they’d listen. She turns to Harry biting her lip. “Will you summon Kreacher?”

“Voluntarily?” He sighs at her beseeching look. “Oh, alright, but why? And I doubt he’ll even come, I don’t have any sway over him.”

“Just trust me. And he will—Sirius and Remus legally adopted you, so the magic will have integrated the new information into bonds—to house elves, to properties, everything that magically transfers to family members upon birth and death.”

Harry rubs at his eyes tiredly. “Kreacher?”

A beat passes before the elf in question appears, ears pointed downwards and clearly not thrilled at the prospect. “Master Harry called for Kreacher?”

Remus’s eyes go wide. “Harry, what on earth are you—”

Hermione decisively motions for him to be quiet. “Just—let me check something.”

Harry clears his throat. “Kreacher, please answer Hermione’s questions.”

Kreacher turns to her obediently, if with some reluctance, and she snags the locket from the midst of the adults’ heated conversation. “Kreacher, have you seen this before?”

His eyes go wide, and he’s clambering forward for the piece of jewelry, face more filled with emotion than any of them have ever seen. “Master Regulus’s locket! Give, give, give—it is being Master Regulus’s, not yours!”

“I’ll let you hold it for a bit if you agree to tell us why it was so important to Master Regulus.”

The elf nods so hastily he almost hits his head on the dinner table.

Hermione’s not sure what she expected, but Sirius’s dead brother being a turncoat who’d sacrificed himself to take something precious from the Dark Lord she basically thinks of as the antichrist is not it.

Ted’s the one to break the silence in the wake of the revelation. “What could possibly be so important about a necklace that it warrants that kind of security and secrecy? And how does that have to do with the dark magic and such that you two sensed?”

After a beat of thought Sirius chokes. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Remus moves to rub his back, but it makes no difference; he’s pale, eyes nearly bloodshot.

“Siri, what is it?”

His husband shakes his head, unable to say the word; instead he looks to Andy. “It smells like him, like a person, and he was protecting it like his life depends on it. And nothing Kreacher tried could destroy it.”

(Growing up in the traditional Black family—years of tutelage on dark magic, recitations of the most gruesome capabilities of magic, day after day being forcibly taught about blood magic and sacrificial magic and methods of seeking power and immortality—)

Andy sucks in a deep breath. “Merlin. Fucking hell.”

“Mother!”

  
“Believe me, Nymphadora, it’s warranted.” The older woman presses a hand to her mouth, head shaking with disbelieving shock. “Morgana, it’s exactly the kind of thing he would do. We never did know how he was able to evade death after Godric’s Hollow…”

“Can you—explain, if we're going to talk about that time pseudo-Hitler tried to kill Harry? Er, or, the first time he tried to kill him, anyway?” Hermione’s the one who speaks, but her eyes are on Harry; he’s not being angsty, for once, just genuinely nervous and anxious to know whatever it is they’re talking about.

“It’s—it’s called a horcrux,” Andy explains, voice dark. “It’s a manner of splitting one’s soul, so that a part of you lives on even if your current body dies.”

Sirius downs the rest of his whiskey before picking up where she left off. “It’s some of the darkest magic there is—even my parents never considered it. It requires killing someone to complete the ritual, and once created a horcrux can only be destroyed by the most extreme measures—I’m talking fiendfyre, hydra acid spit, basilisk venom, weapons enchanted by Merlin or Morgana themselves.”

“And you’re not whole anymore,” Remus adds, a wisp of a paragraph from a long ago read defense text emerging. “Your humanity is—fractured.”

Tonks presses her hands to the sides of her head. “So we have a _literal_ piece of Voldemort right here, and we’re not already destroying it _why_? I can cast fiendfyre, or surely we can get ahold of a suitable weapon somehow.”

Her mother makes a face. “It’s not that easy. The piece of soul inside—it’ll fight back. It’s sentient, after all; the part of Voldemort trapped inside will prey on our feelings to try to convince us to let it out, to trick us into not killing it.”

A hint of a memory tugs at Harry’s mind—Ginny collapsed and pale, Tom Marvolo Riddle standing before him and _I am Lord Voldemort_—

(—a diary that thinks and speaks and _shrieks_ before being stabbed—)

(_basilisk venom_, Sirius had said.)

“Oh, god,” he collapses back into his seat. “I, um—you know how the Chamber of Secrets was opened a few years ago, before I lived here?”

Hermione gasps beside him with understanding, and Ted frowns with confusion. “What does that have to do with anything, dear boy?”

Sirius rubs at the stress line of his forehead with two fingers. “Please don’t tell me something that’s going to prematurely age me even more.”

An apologetic wince from Harry. “I may or may not have been involved. And there are—some things about it I think you might need to know.”

/

/

After their horcrux realization, the rest of the summer is—a blur.

(because if he made two who’s to say he didn’t make three or five or ten—)

Which, Hermione should be worried, and of course she is; Voldemort potentially having the ability to resurrect himself several more times like a video game character means Harry is in incredible danger, so she’s largely terrified and devoting free time to research on horcruxes and defense and protective spells.

But the chaos is a distraction for the Black family from the details of her home life they’re now aware of, which—the more she can avoid talking about it all, the better.

(If she can avoid thinking about it it’s not real, it’s not her.)

Just before they leave for King’s Cross, Sirius knocks on the door of her bedroom, eyes pensive.

“You almost ready to go?”

Hermione gives him a look. “I’ve been ready for an hour. Harry’s the one who likes to wait till the last minute despite me making a packing list for him and helping him get everything but the essentials together a week ago. I think he’s managed to lose his glasses case again.”

“Of course he has.” Sirius shakes his head. “And hasn’t thought to use a summoning spell, I’m sure.”

“A decade of life as a muggle makes for difficulty changing habits, especially when it’s all your formative years for behavior.”

He nods, conceding, before his the set of his mouth grows severe. “I wanted to talk to you about your family.”

She tenses up instantaneously, arms crossed and back up against the wall before she’s even thought about it.

“Breathe, kitten,” Sirius says softly. “Not that. We don’t have to talk about that till you’re ready—or ever. You’re in control.”

Hermione eyes him distrustfully. “What do you mean, then?”

“You’re not going back there—ever, I mean it. Over my dead body.”

It’s clear he’s holding back a righteous rage on her behalf, which—it’s just so _different_, having parental figures genuinely care and do what’s in her best interests.

She’s still unused to it, unsure of how to respond.

“That is, you were being harmed under their roof, so they’re clearly unfit even if they didn’t know—”

“They did,” she interrupts, voice ice and mind far away. “They just—didn’t particularly care about stopping it.”

(When the people supposed to love you more than anything—supposed to protect you—are a party to your pain—a familiar sentiment to him.)

(_A special brand of agony.)_

She can almost feel Sirius’s wrath seeping into the air, watching his fists clench at the revelation.

(He actually cares, truly wants what’s best for her—it’s so out of her realm of familiarity it freaks her out.)

He forces a deep breath before continuing. “Right. They’re going to hell. Anyway, so—basically, I wanted to ask how you want me to proceed. We can have you just never go back, which won’t have any legal ramifications in the wizarding world, as you know; however it does run the risk of you being classified as missing in the muggle world until you’re eighteen, and I know you like being able to live that part of your life, and go out and about in the muggle world. Not to mention they might always try to track you down via muggle methods, which would likely be ineffective, but means you would always live looking over your shoulder.”

Hermione swallows heavily. “You’re saying this like there’s another option.”

“There is.” Sirius meets her eyes, entirely serious. “I can obliviate them—even send them to another country, if you’d like. Then you’d be entirely free of them, no repercussions, not to mention you wouldn’t have to deal with any residual guilt over them being in danger during the war as it comes to fruition.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Sirius, you’d risk being charged with unlawful harm to muggles.”

“You’re not asking, and I don’t care about the risk. I’d rather go back to Azkaban for the rest of my life than you ever set foot in that godforsaken house again.”

The words are entirely genuine, and it makes her want to _sob_—this man who has taken her into his family, loves her so much he would put himself in danger of returning to his own personal hell for her to be safe.

(She knows he still has nightmares about it all—things he won’t tell even Remus.)

(But he’d go through it all over again on her behalf.)

She can’t speak, overcome with emotion, but Sirius just puts on a playful grin. “Besides, who’s to say I’ll be caught? I was on the frontlines of the Order in the first war, never got tapped for anything then. I think I can get away with a memory charm that’s for the better. But again, it’s—whichever way you want to go about this is what we’ll do.”

(The way he’s being so careful to leave the control in her hands, like he knows how important being able to _choose_things is to her—)

The reason she’s always refused point blank to do anything she doesn’t want to.

(She’s done enough things she didn’t want to last a lifetime.)

_(Kindred spirits.)_

“I—if you’re sure you’re willing to take the risk, then—yes. _Please_.” She lets out a deep breath. “I would—I would love few things in this life more than to never see any of them again, to never even hear about their existence.”

“Done,” Sirius promises.

Eyes beginning to well, she surprises herself by leaping to grip him in a tight hug; he’s frozen in shock for a moment, but then his arms move to return the embrace.

“You’re going to be okay, kitten. However long it takes. We’ve got your back.”

“You really do, don’t you?” she whispers, the words broken by her tearful gasps for breath. “Thank you.”

He gives her a look that tells her she doesn’t need to thank him, and neither of them says anything more; they’re both uncomfortable with vocalizing emotions on the whole.

(But then, they don’t need them.)

(When the slightest twitch, the arch of your monster’s posture means the difference between a fine night and a painful one, learning to pick up on every minute detail of body language becomes second nature.)

(It’s why Hermione and Harry have always had conversations Ron and Ginny could never decipher.)

Tonks calls for them a few minutes later, overeager to go to Platform 9 ¾ for the first time since her own graduation from Hogwarts, and Hermione’s too overwhelmed by—well, everything—to fell relieved or anxious or anything in between.

It’s building, she knows; she can feel a mounting pressure in her chest, the anxiety and panic and relief and sorrow and shame and bottled up trauma that she has yet to expel.

(And she’s tamping it down, pushing it all away for now, but when the dam bursts—)

(_Pompeii_.)

They make it to the platform, Tonks overjoyed and Sirius basking in the familiar atmosphere, a soothed expression on his face when they emerge on the magical side.

(She forgets, sometimes, that he’s only just begun to live his life again—that last year he had to hide at home when they were here, that’s it’s still novel for him to be able to publicly do all of the dad things he wants to for Harry.)

Ginny and Ron cheer upon seeing them, as though they hadn’t just met up in Diagon Alley a week prior, but it’s endearing, and it makes Harry smile so big—forever thrilled at reminders that there are people who love him, who are overjoyed to see him.

She anxiously pulls away from their hug with a look to her watch. “I have to get going for my meeting—I’ll come see you after they’ve finished giving us our orientation. Will you grab me a licorice wand, Harry?”

“Of course,” he promises.

Hermione hurries onto the train, towards the front compartment she’s kept tabs on since first-year.

Someone grabs onto her shoulder and she spins defensively, but it’s just Neville, a timid smile on his face.

“Hi, Hermione—sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—wasn’t sure where we’re supposed to go?” His cheeks grow bright red, and he nervously gestures to his chest, where a Prefect badge glimmers.

“Oh! You’re the other Prefect for Gryffindor?”

He doesn’t meet her eyes. “I know, it was a surprise to me too—don’t know why they didn’t pick Harry or Ron, or even Dean.”

“No—that’s not what I meant!” she insists, reaching for his hands fondly. “I was so worried it _would _be Ron or Dean, and they wouldn’t take it seriously, and then I’d be doing twice the work and constantly playing bad cop. But you—Neville, that’s brilliant! Dumbledore couldn’t have made a better choice.”

She wishes she could hex everyone who’s ever said anything negative to Neville for contributing to the shock on his face at her reassurance, because she’s not just saying it for his benefit—it’s _true_. Neville is—simply the best of them all.

Padma and Anthony have beat them there, naturally, Ravenclaws that they are, but the rest of the fifth year prefects have yet to arrive; the Heads, a Slytherin girl and Ravenclaw boy, are there, but look stressed, bent over a pile of charts and schedules.

Hannah follows a moment behind them, an infectious smile on her face as she waves to everyone in the room. “Hello! Neville, I’m so glad you’re here—and Hermione, I love your hair! Such a change, but I think it suits you. The purple at the ends is a fun touch!”

“Thanks, Hannah, it’s good to see you.”

The other girl’s enthusiasm seems to calm Neville—make him confident in his own place in the Prefects’ car; the two of them chatter, and Hermione zones out.

She’s lost in thought as Ernie and Pansy file in, even as the Heads begin passing out binders and clipboards; it’s strange, being on the way to Hogwarts without Harry, Ron, and Ginny beside her.

Her attention snaps back into her body when the door opens once more, and before she even logically makes the connection, her body just—_knows_. The tingle down her spine, the way her lungs expand just a bit more and breathing gets just a bit easier—

(_Draco’s here.)_

It takes all of her willpower not to look at him, make sure he’s okay; not to throw herself at him and hold on so tightly their skin fuses together.

She’s given respite when the Heads have them all move into something resembling a circle to begin giving them more clear expectations and standards of the role they’ve taken on; Elianna is explaining patrol routes and policies for finding coverage for nights one is scheduled to be on call, but the circle means Hermione is facing Draco and—

(His body, his face is entirely stoic, so practiced, but his eyes—they _smolder_.)

She’d worry that it’s not subtle, but no one else can read him well enough to notice, and even if they could, no one here is paying him enough attention to catch his unblinking stare as he takes in the sight of his soul mate, soaking up her presence.

(the proof that by _some _metric she’s okay, that he’s no longer surrounded by Death Eaters and darkness and—)

“We’ll take a break for a little while—stretch your legs, go say hi to friends if you’d like, grab a bite to eat, and then when we come back we’ll talk about protocol during Quidditch and other special events and occasions.”

Hermione slips to the bathroom, feeling the need to splash some water on her face; she’s taking deep breaths and avoiding the pale image in the mirror a few minutes later when a familiar knock raps on the door.

Opening the door, she feels Draco’s disillusioned form brush up against her as he steps inside before re-closing the door.

His voice whispers a silencing spell before making himself visible.

They both freeze for a moment, just drinking in the sight of each other before surging together in a hug so tight Hermione thinks it might bruise—relishes the thought, the proof that she’s _here_, that Draco is with her.

“Thank Merlin,” he breathes against her neck, walking her backwards until she’s up against the sink, where he makes use of newfound muscles to lift her into a sitting position on the counter, moving to stand between her legs. “I missed you so much, baby. So fucking much.”

Hermione hums into his shoulder. “You’ve grown out your hair.”

  
“Yeah, I—too busy to keep up with cutting it, mostly.”

“I love it,” she says softly, tangling her fingers into the waves. “Will you keep it this way? At least for a while?”

“If you’d like,” Draco smirks, but his eyes are soft, the touch tracing the curve of her spine now feather light. “Speaking of hair—yours looks fucking amazing. I worried I’d miss your old color too much to like the new one in person, but—you look gorgeous. Not that that comes as a surprise,” he teases, wrapping a stray curl around a thumb. “Seeing your curls, so light they’re almost my shade…I hope our kids’ hair looks like this.”

She sucks in a breath of surprise, stomach flipping at the notion, both hopeful and terrified.

(Kids—their kids, someday. The rest of her life—)

“Hey, breathe,” Draco reminds her. “It’s far away. We have plenty of time before then. And even when it gets here—it’s just you and me, like always. We’ll be okay.”

Hermione nods, blinking. “I—right. Sorry, I don’t know why it—freaks me out so much.”

He waves away her apology. “I got used to your fear of commitment a long time ago. By now I’ve gotten you comfortable with mentions of us eventually getting married, so—I figure if I start desensitizing you now, in a year or two talking about our kids won’t make you want to run away from me and never come back.”

She laughs despite herself, tugging his face closer to hers. “I love you. I can’t promise I won’t ever run away again, but I’ll always make the return trip.”

“I love you too. And that’s okay—I’d wait however long you need for you to come back to me.”

He holds her close, and they’re in a dingy cramped train bathroom but Draco is _here _and she can _breathe_.

(It’s—the first time she’s felt unfettered, pure happiness in so many months.)

Something about his skin on hers makes the most unconscious part of her mind know she’s okay.

(Know she’s _safe_.)

(Know that Draco would set the entire world on fire to keep her that way.)

“Do you—” she bites her lip worriedly, reaching to stroke a thumb along the dark bags under his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

(The summer, Voldemort, having to pretend to be a Death Eater for the foreseeable future, witnessing egregious darkness in his own home—)

Draco shakes his head. “Not now—not yet. We’ll have to head back to the meeting in a minute…and anyway, I don’t want to think about it right now. Just—for a little bit, I want it all to feel far away.”

“Okay. Which—congratulations on Prefect, again,” she beams. “You deserve it. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you. I still don’t know what Dumbledore was thinking giving it to you—you’ve broken more rules than anyone, _including_ Fred and George,” he makes a face teasingly.

“Yes but I almost never get _caught_ breaking them. If he picked Parvati over me he’d have to explain why.”

Draco smirks, pulling back to look at her, a bemused but fond expression on his face. “I expect people might take issue with a Prefect who held someone hostage last term.”

Her expression doesn’t flinch, merely raising an eyebrow. “Does Rita _really _count as some_one_?”

“Gryffindors,” he groans, shaking his head. “Speaking of which—don’t antagonize the new Defense professor, will you?

“Why—”

“We don’t have time, I’ll explain when we’re in the Room later, but—she’s going to be a terror, and you’ll feel all noble like you should challenge her, but please can you not do it to her face?”

“Fine. For now.”

“Thank you.” He presses one last kiss to her lips before disillusioning himself again. “I love you. See you soon.”

As he slinks through the door her happiness seems to leech out of the room with him.

(She’s left to wonder how much longer she can stay on this tightrope, how much longer she can hide the darkness inside her—)

(There are cracks, now, letting splinters of it out, and it’s only a matter of time before the walls entirely crumble.)

“It’s Hogwarts,” she reminds herself, taking deep, slow breaths. “No Triwizard Tournament, Remus will be there, Draco and Harry are okay. We can do this.”

(_What could go wrong?_)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OotP is heeeeere!!! at long last
> 
> next chapter: Remus’s first lesson back, Hermione’s emotional processing of being back at school//her circumstances, the twins being themselves, some D/H fluff. Also Umbridge, which (ugh) but she makes for lots of interesting plot directions so there’s that
> 
> y’all Pansy and Narcissa’s roles will be expanding soon and I am SO excited. Also, harry’s soul mate will be making moves soon (which, FINALLY bc holding off until now has been killing me but I have /specific plans/) so that’s hype
> 
> *chapter title from Lonely Hearts Club by Winona Oak
> 
> take care, y’all—all my love your way.


	18. I'm holding on

They leave their first Defense lesson with Umbridge, and Hermione is _fuming_.

Voldemort is back, they’re on the cusp of a war all too many of them will be forced into, and this bitch and the rest of the Ministry think they don’t need to practice _actually defending themselves_?

When an entire extremist group is out to murder her and other muggleborns without provocation?

It’s—Draco had warned her, and the toad’s speech at the welcome feast had made it clear that she was here to interfere with business as usual, but even in the brevity of the lesson she’d become the most angry she’d ever been in a class; Umbridge made Trelawney look like professor of the year.

And Harry…she’d relayed Draco’s warning not to provoke Umbridge, but her best friend was ever the impulsive Gryffindor and couldn’t help himself, managing to get detention on the first day.

(and she really isn’t upset with him about it because although she knows it was a bad idea, she’s glad _someone _said something.)

It’s almost nice, though, the way these moments bring their class together; all the Gryffindor fifth years cluster, angrily ranting to each other the entire way to Charms in such a unique moment of unity—the kind that only comes from collective hatred.

(It’ll only grow stronger with each of her lessons, but they have no idea how bone-deep just yet.)

Remus smiles in greeting when they all arrive in Charms, brow furrowing at the half-hearted response he receives from the lot of them. “Has something happened? You all seem…not at all yourselves.” He turns his attention to his godson, expression worried.

Harry merely scowls in response, and Hermione winces but clears her throat to explain. “We’ve just come from our first lesson with Umbridge.”

“Umbitch, more like,” Ron mutters rather loudly, earning a laugh from most of the room. “Re—Professor Lupin, that is—you wouldn’t believe the shit she’s—”

Remus gives him a look but the muscle twitch in his jaw gives him away. “Believe me, Ron, there is very little Professor Umbridge could do that would surprise me. She’s been the main voice behind some lovely legislation…” he trails off, rubbing his temples at the whole class’s eyes rapt with attention. “Well, I don’t to get into it.”

All the Gryffindors begin to protest, but Hermione swivels around in her chair. “He means he doesn’t want to get in trouble for talking shit about a colleague, but Umbridge has spent years pushing anti-werewolf bills, as well as more incredibly discriminatory policies against other beings, and non-pureblood wizards. She’s proposed a muggleborn registry before, and in private records from a Wizengamot session in the seventies she suggested a eugenics program to prevent squibs from having muggleborn descendants who might ‘tarnish’ the magical community.”

Dean’s jaw drops. “She’s got the beliefs of the Nazis and she’s allowed to be a teacher?”

(The irony is almost fucking laughable, because of course only those with muggle heritage know about the Nazis—know how much danger they’re in with this woman in power, in their _school_. Where they’re supposed to be _safe_.)

“Moving on,” Remus insists, giving with such a dad expression that they all sigh but straighten up, pulling out their textbooks. “Obviously, you all have had four years of Charms previously, and you’ve had me as a teacher before. However, this year’s charms curriculum has been re-vamped somewhat; we’ll be putting a greater focus on the application of different spells, and covering a broader range of charms. While I will still be encouraging you to study theory, you will only be tested on foundational concepts.”

Hermione lets out a delighted gasp; Remus gives her a look, like he knows she’s figured out what he’s doing and she needs to keep quiet, so she bites down on her grin.

The rest of the class goes smoothly—of course it does, Remus is the most engaging professor they’ve ever had, and despite his own being a good student he had friends who didn’t inherently care about school in the same way, so he knows how important it is to make the content relevant.

“Congrats on your marriage, by the way!” Lavender exclaims with an eye on his ring as they all stand to leave. “Who’s the lucky witch or wizard?”

“Sirius Black.” Remus winces at the excited shriek she releases.

“He was _Witch Weekly’s_ most eligible bachelor for years! Recently and before the war. Nice catch, Professor Lupin! Although of course he’s lucky to have you as well.”

Remus gives an exasperated smile. “Believe me, he never lets me forget about the award. And thank you, Lavender. Have a great rest of your day.”

Hermione, Harry, and Ron want to stay after and talk to him, of course, but the Hufflepuff first years are at the door, so Harry calls “_Bye Uncle Moony!”_ and they head to the Great Hall for lunch.

Fred and George are already there, and they plop down beside them, muttering thanks when they pass the pumpkin juice.

“Where did you lot come from?”

“Charms, and Defense before that. You had either yet?” Ron asks.

Fred grins. “Oh, yes, we had Umbridge first thing Monday and lovely Lupin yesterday afternoon. He’s a genius.”

Harry purses his lips. “What do you mean? And also, Hermione—why were you so excited at the beginning of class?”

She shakes her head at him. “Honestly, Harry, for someone so smart you don’t pick up on subtleties much.”

“Right, which is why you then explain them to me, because you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” She snorts. “Remus is teaching us Defense.”

Ron looks at her worriedly. “Did you hit your head, or something? Do you remember what year it is?”

“I don’t have _amnesia_,” Hermione rolls her eyes. “I meant what I said, Remus is teaching us Defense. He and Dumbledore knew the Ministry would plant Umbridge, and that she wouldn’t teach us properly, so he’s using the Charms position as a loophole to teach us Defense spells as well since they technically also fall under the Charms umbrella.”

“A true Marauder—against the authority till the end,” George sighs with admiration.

“Should’ve known they were cooking up something like this honestly.” Fred narrows his eyes. “Hogwarts is the hunting ground for new Order members—as much as Mum kicked up a fuss about us, young people joining after being practically indoctrinated here is entirely how the first Order came about. There’s no way Dumbledore would let the Ministry interfere with his plans.”

“I used to look up to him so much,” Ron muses. “The stories Mum and Dad told, the way the world talks about him being the most powerful wizard alive and defeating Grindlewald and all—and then you get here and he seems so amazing, the kind of guy you want to be like. But the more of him we see…the more horrified I am. He talks a big game but he’s the wolf in every kids’ story.”

Hermione nods, scornful look on her face. “Guess it’s true when they say don’t meet your heroes.”

/

It’s Friday night, and she’s in the library, which she knows Blaise is going to give her shit about but she’s just started reading a new series and it’s serving as a welcome distraction from her own thoughts.

Harry’d had his first detention with Umbridge the day before, and when he came back with words carved into his skin she and Ron were both _fuming_.

(But they can’t do anything about it—kicking up a fuss will only make things so much worse, and encourage Fudge to give Umbridge even more power, so they’re just—calling Dobby to perform a numbing charm before he goes to detention, now.)

Nearing midnight, she spots motion out of the corner of her eye and startles—but it’s just Luna, taking a seat beside her with a small smile. “Hi, Hermione. How’s your first week back been?”

“All right. Hard moments and bright spots, you know?”

Luna nods, a deep understanding in her eyes. “It’s hard, times like now. Especially when you have something heavy weighing on your soul.”

Hermione tenses defensively. “How do you—”

“I don’t,” Luna reassures her, voice gentle. “I just know that it’s something, and that it’s awful, and you’ve been carrying it alone for a very long time. It’s just part of what I can See.”

The brunette nods nervously. “It’s—technically, the situation has gotten better. And yet—somehow now that it’s over is when I’m falling apart, when it’s hitting me the most.”

“That’s just how trauma works.” Luna’s words are soft. “Your brain blocks it out until you’re through it, otherwise you can’t survive it. And then when it ends it all crashes down at once.”

A bitter laugh of agreement from Hermione. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” A beat of silence. “You’re really good at this, Lu.”

The other girl shrugs modestly. “You learn a lot about people when you’re on the outskirts a lot, and they don’t ever think you’re paying attention.” Before Hermione can respond, she reaches in her bag, handing over a corked phial. “I actually came to find you to give you this, for Harry.”

Hermione instinctively reaches to accept it, noticing scratches on the back of Luna’s hand in passing but not paying them much attention, instead focusing on the viscous yellow substance within the phial. “What is it?”

“Essence of murtlap—it’ll help with his hand. This should be enough for until the current wounds are healed, but I can get more if he lands himself in more detention, which I don’t doubt he will.”

Hermione gapes at her. “How did you—did you See this too?”

“No, of course not,” Luna shakes her head like it’s a ridiculous notion. “ESP doesn’t extend to something like that.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Hermione sighs. “How did you find out then?”

But before Luna answers, her eyes flicker back to the hand that had offered the murtlap, widening when she realizes what she’d thought to be mere scratches take the shape of _I must not tell lies_. “Oh my god, Luna, you’re—”

Luna presses a finger to her lips. “He’s still not ready for us to meet, whether he knows it or not. Soon, though. Once his worries from the summer fade a bit. For now, don’t tell him it’s from me—say you got it from Dobby, or Draco, or something.”

“But—I don’t—how have you two never bumped into each other at Hogwarts?”

A smirk forms on Luna’s face. “It hasn’t been by accident. I’m waiting till the time is right. He’s had…plenty enough going on, without having to worry about me. For all he’d know, I could just want to be with him because he’s Harry Potter.”

“But you’re his soul mate.”

“That doesn’t mean my intentions are pure, as nice as it would be if it did. He’d have no reason to trust me above other people, and it’s stress he hasn’t needed.”

“You are a stronger person than I.”

“I don’t believe that,” Luna shakes her head, squeezing Hermione’s hand. “We both just do what we must. What’s best for the people around us.”

(_Even when it hurts_, goes unspoken.)

/

A hand tugs her into an alcove directly after the Prefect meeting; she starts to smile, assuming it’s Draco, only to come face to face with none other than Pansy Parkinson.

“What do I have to do for you to switch patrols with me on Friday?”

Hermione blinks at her in confusion. “What?”

Pansy crosses her arms, entire body tense. “I can pay you, or cover a different day’s patrol, or get you something from Madam Malkin’s—whatever you want.”

“I don’t—but you’re set to patrol Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Why would you rather have to deal with Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs?”

“The why doesn’t matter,” the other girl snaps defensively. “Just—will you? Please?”

Hermione’s instinctively suspicious; Pansy is one of the Slytherins Draco talks about the least, so she doesn’t know a ton about her, or why she might have approached her.

(But the desperation in her eyes—it’s familiar.)

“Sure, Pansy. I—it’s no problem. Don’t worry about paying me or anything, it’s—I’d have to be patrolling anyway, so—it’s fine.” Hermione rubs at her eyes.

“Thank—thank you.” Pansy pauses for a moment like she wants to say more, but gives a perfunctory nod instead before turning and hurrying away.

Hermione makes her way to the Room, where Draco’s already waiting, having left immediately after the Prefect meeting.

“What kept you?” he asks, reaching to pull her close.

It’s the first time they’ll have more than ten minutes alone since the Spring, and she hums with pleasure as his hands slide under her shirt, moving her hips against him immediately.

“Pansy wanted to switch patrol routes with me,” Hermione replies breathily. She frowns when he pauses taking off her shirt to make a surprised face.

“Parkinson?”

“Is there another that’s a Prefect I don’t know about?”

“It just seems odd. Bit out of character,” Draco mutters. “I don’t know. We used to be pretty good friends, but she’s become more of a lone wolf the last year or so.”

“Hmm.” She waits another moment, in case he has something else to say, but he resumes getting her shirt and bra off, lips trailing along the bared skin until her mind is miles away from Prefect duties.

It’s rushed, and rough, and so _good_—Draco always gives her exactly what she needs, _is _always exactly what she needs, and at one point says something funny that has them both laughing like they’re not _literally_ mid thrust.

She never had a happy childhood—doesn’t have a nostalgic time period to look back on fondly and wish she were still in.

(But when she’s with him, none of it matters; they’ve built such a trust, so thoroughly retrained her brain, that these moments make nothing else matter.)

Later, her back is pressed against his chest, and he mouths along her neck every few minutes just to make her squirm pleasantly.

“Sometimes I think you’re addicted to sex,” he says, his breath on the back of her neck making her back arch.

“If I were I would date someone else so we wouldn’t have to sneak around all the time—I’d be able to get laid a lot more.”

Draco snorts. “That’s true.”

She’s quiet for a moment, thinking.

Because he’s not wrong, really—she wants to go at it much more than the average sixteen year old girl, she knows, and it’s—how to put into words the sense of control it gives her, that it’s one of so few times she feels alive?

(One of so few times she can feel _anything_, that she’s not completely numb to the world around her.)

He watches her expression, clearly waiting for her to speak—this is it, then, the perfect opportunity to _tell_ him.

(To open up about this thing that’s been eating her alive for as long as she can remember—this thing that’s colored every moment of their relationship.)

But to say it would make it real, would mean he’s no longer her safe haven from acknowledging her own memories.

(Would mean her façade of sanity would become transparent, the last vestiges of her will to live would crumble.)

So all she says is, “I love you,” and he hums it back, and they both know she’s still hiding part of herself away from him but they have the rest of their lives for that.

(For now it’s all she can do to keep breathing.)

/

“I know Professor Lupin is intending to teach us Defense, which—he’s the best, obviously. But given that he’s also having to make sure we’re prepared for Charms OWLs…” Blaise makes a face. “I think we need more practice.”

Ginny nods before laying down a _Draw 4_ card that earns her a scowl from her soul mate, which only makes her laugh. “I agree. Remus is as good as it gets, but—this is just too much for one course to fully incorporate, and with the war coming…we can’t afford to be unprepared.”

They look to Hermione, and she makes a face, but they all know it’ll be best coming from her. “Harry, we were thinking—”

He groans before she gets the words out. “I have no idea where this is going but I already know I’m going to hate it because you all conspiring never ends well.”

“But we’re always right,” Hermione wheedles, moving to sit next to him on the beanbag.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. Hit me with it, then.”

Blaise clears his throat. “You’re the best at Defense in our year—you know spells, you’re great at using them, and you’ve had the most real world experience of us all. You…you know what it’s like, to be in that moment of having to defend yourself like your life depends on it.”

Harry narrows his eyes at him. “You never give me this many compliments—what do you want?”

Ginny bursts out laughing, and Hermione tries to hide her own smile. “Harry, we—we think you could do it. Teach us, I mean—the things Remus doesn’t have time to, help us practice, and prepare ourselves.”

Harry scratches the back of his neck, blushing nervously. “I—sure, I mean I don’t know that I’m qualified, but I’m happy to help if I can. You guys are my best friends.”

Hermione makes a face. “That’s the thing—we don't mean just us.”

“Sorry?”

“We mean everyone,” Blaise explains, without softening the blow. “We want to start a—defense club, of sorts, and open it up to all students.”

“Oh god, I—I don’t know that anyone will listen to me. I mean, why would they—I’m no one. And all four houses? Do we think they’ll even agree to be together?”

“They will if they want to be a part of it,” Hermione declares, arching an eyebrow with the expression Harry’s only ever seen the day she took on Winky’s bond. “OWLs don’t discriminate—and neither will the war. We’ll all be in danger, and regardless of where everyone’s parents stand...everyone here is just a kid. They all deserve to learn to defend themselves.”

She finds herself making the same speech a week later, after days of careful planning; Sirius is entirely on board and advising them on the best ways not to get caught, of course, and at his instruction they rent out the entirety of the Hog’s Head to keep from being overheard.

(It turns out the barkeep is Dumbledore’s brother who used to be in the order, which—weird, and made Hermione suspicious, but Sirius had promised Aberforth and Albus had never gotten along and that was pretty good encouragement to trusting him.)

They make everyone sign a non-disclosure agreement before going in, letting them know it’s charmed to hex anyone who shares details about the meeting or attendees, although Draco sits under the Invisibility Cloak even with the precautions.

(He can’t afford the risk.)

The Gryffindors are the most vocal about being opposed, of course; a fourth year shouts that he doesn’t want to spend time with Death Eater spawn, and Hermione feels her entire body go rigid, Harry doing likewise beside her.

Before either of them can stutter out a response, though, Neville stands, and in a commanding voice, says, “Then leave.”

The kid gasps, but Neville crosses his arms just below his Prefect badge, unperturbed. “Everyone deserves to learn. It doesn’t matter who they are, or what side their family is on—no one deserves to be unable to defend themselves. Your prejudice isn’t welcome here, so either deal with it or go ahead and leave right now. I’m happy to escort you back to the castle if you’d like.”

He scowls, but sits back down, and Neville turns his gaze to the rest of the room; Hermione thinks she might be one of the only ones who can tell how nervous he is. “Anyone else have a problem with someone who’s here?” He lets out a deep breath when he’s met with silence. “Good. Enough people try to divide us—we don’t need to help them.” He sits back down, giving Harry and Hermione an apologetic look.

“So—Hermione and I have been doing through defense curriculum for OWLs specifically to decide what to cover in our meetings, but we’ll also be doing some general defense spells, and more or less advanced spells that I’ve found particularly useful in dangerous situations. And that’s about all I’ve got for today.” He smiles nervously out at the crowd before gesturing to Hermione to take over.

“Right, then, some logistics: we won’t have our first meeting for another week or so, that way everyone has some time to decide whether or not they’d like to join. We understand this is a big decision, because of the potential for us to get in trouble, so—we respect whatever decision each of you decides to make.”

She clears her throat, holding up a fresh parchment. “For security purposes, in order to join you will have to sign this roster, which we’ve imbued with a protective charm that will prevent you from sharing any of the details. We have a plan for communicating day, time, and location details as well, but we’re not sharing specifics until everyone’s signed.”

“I don’t understand the need for all this secrecy,” Anthony grumbles. “We’re just doing extra spellwork outside of class. It’s not like they’re going to put us in Azkaban for studying.”

Dean lets out a bitter laugh. “The fact that you believe that shows how much privilege you have, dude. If the people in power don’t like what someone’s up to, they don't need proof of a crime.”

Hermione nods in agreement. “Dean’s right. And moreover, a lot of the people in this room can’t afford for their families to know they’re affiliating with each other—and with Harry especially, given what the media is saying about him right now. We won’t put anyone at risk”

Disillusioned beside her, Draco trails a hand along her spine, and her lips twitch but she maintains her serious expression.

Students begin to get up; some, already certain, come up to sign the parchment, and Hermione waves her wand to remove the security spells so that they can all begin to trickle out.

Blaise cracks his neck before leaning his head on Ginny’s shoulder. “Here’s to hoping this isn’t a terrible idea.”

“Even if it is, it'll be worth it,” Harry insists, eyes far away. “If it makes even one person just a little less vulnerable when the world goes to shit, it’ll be worth it.”

“We need a name,” Blaise announces. “Suggestions anyone? Mine is Hogwarts Army.”

His girlfriend raises an eyebrow. “Defense Academy?”

“Voices of Treason,” Blaise volleys back.

“All-Student Alliance.” Ginny’s voice is more serious, this time, and she swallows before explaining. “Because everyone is welcome, and whatever happens in the next few years, at least for now we’re all in this together.”

“ASA,” Harry nods approvingly. “I like it.”

/

The day is already chaotic even before McGonagall asks her to stay after class; Umbridge posted a resolution banning student organizations, and every attendee of the introductory ASA meeting had conspicuously attempted to flag her and/or Harry down like an idiot.

“I’m assuming you saw the posting,” McGonagall says without preamble.

Hermione blinks back at her innocently. “I’m not sure why that would be particularly relevant to me.”

“Oh, hush, just because I ignore the rumors about a clandestine school-wide meetup doesn’t mean I’ll pretend they don’t exist. I assume you have a plan for security so further rumors don’t get out?”

“Yes, we—we’ve modified the Fidelius, actually; there’s a Secret Keeper for the group, so everyone who signed the contract to join is unable to disclose any information about it.”

“Very good,” McGonagall nods proudly. “Mister Malfoy and Miss Weasley finally put their skills together, then?”

A smirk forms on her face but she nods in affirmation. “Any advice?”

“I think at this point you don’t even need me to say any of it—you’re bright enough to know what I’d say. And the less involved and informed I am, the better for your security. And plausible deniability, of course.”

“Naturally.”

McGonagall’s expression grows serious. “Albus will likely approach you—and will probably attempt to control the way you do things.”

“I won’t allow it.”

“I assumed as much. Do make sure you prepare for his inquisition, nonetheless. As much distaste as you and I both hold for him…he holds too much power in this war for him to decide you’re the enemy.”

Hermione cocks her head to the side, frowning. “I understand. For now.”

/

The first real meeting is—not smooth, or fun, exactly, but—_something_.

Harry announces they’ll be working on the disarming spell, which naturally receives outcry and ridicule.

His expression goes dark, a haunted look Hermione recognizes but no one else in the room has seen. “It was good enough to keep Voldemort from killing me—unless anyone else here has beat him with a more advanced spell? No?”

Everyone murmurs quietly, so Luna speaks up, airy voice resonating, “If we trust Harry to teach us, why wouldn’t we trust his judgement about what’s most important to learn? Either we wholly believe in his Defense ability and wisdom or not at all.” She blinks at everyone staring her down, unfazed. “Personally, I believe in Harry’s judgement. We’ve all seen his Defense skill—and given how humble he is, he’s probably even better than we know.”

Harry’s entire face grows dark with blush. “Er, that’s—really kind of you. Thank you—” he pauses, looking to her as though asking for her name, but she shakes her head with a smile and gestures for him to get back to it. “Right, then. So—yeah.”

Hermione squeezes his arm, hearing the unspoken plea for help. “Everyone go ahead and get in the pairs we’ve assigned, and spend the next fifteen minutes or so taking turns practicing; later we’ll work on trying to cast it when your opponent is shielding, but for now, don’t defend yourselves when you’re being disarmed.”

The room fills with chatter as everyone acquiesces; she, Harry, Ginny, and Draco had spent hours pouring over the member roster to craft the pairings, attempting to balance strengths and skillsets.

Many were interhouse pairings, some of which they’d been a little nervous about, but—right now they seem to be working; slowly but surely, the room’s atmosphere grows just a bit warmer, just a bit more comfortable.

The membership Fidelius intact or no, Draco’s polyjuiced as an extra precaution and currently looks like Fred, who had unsurprisingly gotten detention; Ginny and Blaise are paired up, grinning as their spells crackle back and forth, looking entirely too happy about hexing each other.

“We’re really doing this,” Harry says when they meet back at the front of the room, both having made rounds through it and advised different individuals on necessary improvements. “I can’t believe it…it’s working.”

“All thanks to you,” Hermione reminds him, beaming.

“Thanks to us,” he corrects, one arm pulling her into a relieved hug.

Hermione nods, eyes far away. “Makes me miss Viktor and Cedric. Fleur too, although we see her so much it doesn’t feel like she’s gone so much.”

“There’s a meeting this weekend, we’ll get to see her when we Floo call in.”

“True,” she hums. Draco winks at her, but it’s Fred’s face so she scrunches up her nose in a way that makes him burst into laughter.

“You know, I think we might just stand a chance when the world goes to shit,” Harry says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: chapter title from Heavy by linkin park  
I resisted tiktok for so long but caved and now bookish tiktok has consumed me. drop your handle if you make bookish content (im @andthatsthektea)  
Thank you for all of your continued support and love for this fic—it means the world (always), and in times like this it’s such a bright spot in the darkness. All I can hope to do is live up to your praise.  
This chapter felt a little fluffy, but I promise it’s necessary for some plot points coming up.  
hope the chaos is treating you well. much love.


	19. don't let me drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much love to you all. Writer’s block is being a hoe but I think (?) we’re past it for now, so new chapters should be coming soon!! And ive finally gotten some work done on my own books so we’re calling it a tentative win.  
Hope you enjoy it!

It’s only her second time patrolling with Pansy, but—she doesn’t mind at all, really.

They fall into an easy silence as they did the first time, though they both make occasional comments as they come to mind.

They’d both picked up other people’s patrol shifts, tonight, as there’s a Quidditch match and most of the other Prefects likely hope to partake in post-game festivities, so their lack of interest in the sport is serving as one more point of commonality.

Pansy is—incredibly witty, and clever, and funny in a way so full of fire it reminds her of Ginny, largely. Hermione’s started paying more attention to her in class and the Great Hall, and—she keeps to herself, mostly.

(So much so the brunette wonders if she should worry.)

The other girl is in the midst of a story about something idiotic Crabbe did in the Slytherin common room last week when her voice goes suddenly silent, her body freezing stock still.

“What—” Hermione looks over to see the blood gone from her face, panic in her eyes.

(A familiar kind of horror.)

Pansy’s lips tremble, but she clenches her jaw, remaining frozen as Roger Davies and a sixth year Gryffindor girl stroll past without glancing at them.

Pansy slumps against the brick wall as soon as the pair have rounded the next corner, her eyes closed.

“Pansy?” Hermione asks tentatively. “Is there—anything I can do?”

The dark haired girl takes a deep breath before re-opening her eyes, straightening. “I-I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Hermione doesn’t push, allows it to sink back into silence.

(But the day Pansy had begged to switch patrols—it had been to avoid Ravenclaw Tower.)

(And now she’s having a panic attack at the sight of Roger Davies. It doesn’t take much guesswork.)

/

“Mia,” Harry groans, spitting Hermione’s hair out of his mouth after she jerks her head too fast and whacks him with the mass.

“Sorry!” She gives a brief smile before turning back to the fireplace—the one in the RoR they’re using to floo call into Order meetings.

They’d tried to get Remus and Professor McGonagall to let them go with them physically, but she’d insisted it would be too suspicious, which—while not wrong, they still hated not being able to _actually _be at Grimmauld.

There’s not much news—McGonagall reveals the newest info from her source (aka Draco), which is just more of the same: the Death Eaters are after the weapon, and it’s in the ministry.

(The Order is aware and rotating guard shifts, but they won’t disclose the specifics of the what or where within the Ministry it is, which—Hermione has a bad feeling.)

Percy recounts that the Minister is still staunchly denying Voldemort’s return—the rumors of his recent strife with his family have done their job, getting him closer to Fudge and other central players. His role has the unfortunate consequence of his not being allowed to be viewed with Tonks (who everyone knows is tight with the Dumbledore/Weasley/old-Light-side gang), but it’s a necessary sacrifice—and one the woman in question doesn’t mind, claiming that the secrecy is “spicy” and will be a fun story for either kids or nieces and nephews.

“How’s ASA going, you two?” Ted asks, making Molly scowl with disproval.

“Well,” Harry smiles nervously. “I, er—still feel out of my depth, but all the members are great and everyone’s making awesome progress. And I think that’s making them do better, too, because they feel more confident and less incapable if the war—yeah.”

“Harry’s being modest—he’s doing a phenomenal job teaching,” Hermione promises, sticking her tongue out at him when he pinches her side in retribution. She looks to the where Minevra is seated. “Professor, have you heard anything about whether Umbridge has been convinced we’re not doing it? Or you, Remus?”

McGonagall tilts her head thoughtfully. “She’s definitely suspicious of something, because the interhouse relations have been—better than in living memory, in all honesty. I don’t believe she’s considered that the defense group is still meeting, because she doesn’t know about the RoR, so from her perspective there’s no physical way you _could_ still be holding it. And that clever charm of Miss Weasley’s is working perfectly, as no students have said anything, so—continue being cautious and behaving as though she’s on your tail, but I personally see no reason to actively _worry_.”

Remus nods, mentioning that he’s interpreted the situation similarly.

And even though that’s pretty much what they’d already assumed, she feels just a bit of the tension seep out of both her and Harry at the confirmation.

(They’re making a difference.)

(And maybe it’s not big—maybe it will only end up changing things for one person.)

(But to save one person is to save an entire world.)

/

Honey.

It’s such a small, inconsequential word.

(And yet—)

(It’s enough to send her spiraling.)

_(Honey.)_

As soon as it came out of Draco’s mouth she’d locked up, dissociated entirely; he pulls back immediately, knowing something’s clearly wrong, but she can’t explain at the moment, just—

(turns her head away from him, cringing and tamping down the urge to throw up because for whatever reason that _word_is one her brain has decided to cling to.)

She curls in on herself further, wishing it were possible to crawl out of her own skin and not know the thoughts in her brain, the memories that revolt her, just—jettison out of her body and not let them feel like hers anymore.

“You have to breathe, Juliet,” Draco says softly after a moment, and he’s right, he’s absolutely right, but breathing hurts and to release a breath is to release a modicum of control, and—

She feels more stable after a few minutes, leaning back against the headboard of the bed and squeezing Draco’s hand in thanks when he hands her a cup of water.

His eyes are full of guilt, and it—sends a pang to her heart to see.

“Hey. I love you. You didn’t—do anything wrong,” she promises, voice raspy. “I just—don’t call me that. Please. Baby is—good. Perfect.”

(_Untainted_.)

Draco worries at his bottom lip. “Mia, why—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She says the words firmly, not meeting his eyes.

“I think we should at least—”

“I said no, Draco!” her pitch is getting higher, and she can feel her breathing get shallow at the thought that he might not let it go this time. “I don’t make you talk about what’s happened to you, or why certain things—I leave you alone about the shit you’ve gone through at home!”

“Yes, but I’ve actually said the words! You’re—bottling it all up, and if you don’t let out a little bit one day you’re going to explode. Just—please, Hermione.”

She can feel her whole body trembling—for only the third time in her life, physically pulls away from her soul mate.

(He recoils at the look in her eyes—the fact that in this moment, she’s seeing him as a threat.)

But she can’t help it, it’s—he means well, and he’s probably right, but she doesn’t want to and it makes it feel out of her control and—

(she’s had enough out of her control, and it’s not worth the fight but she can’t help the urge to do it anyway because she’s in that headspace and the honey just sent her straight to the darkest parts of her mind and it just—)

Draco turns his face so she can’t see the anguish he wears—the horror, at knowing a part of her believes him capable of doing anything to hurt her.

(it’s not her fault—life has taught her to believe it, and she has every reason to; love doesn’t override years of conditioning.)

(but he hates that life has done enough harm for her to be conditioned so thoroughly.)

He holds his hands up—not moving fast or close to her enough to make her flinch, just to gesture that he’s relenting. “Okay, baby, we can—whatever you want. Whenever you’re ready. I don’t…” fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I don’t want to upset you, or make you feel…I just—you haven’t seemed like yourself, lately. And if me being there for you would help, then—I want to.”

She tugs the blanket she’d pulled over herself up to her chin, clenched knuckles hiding her mouth, because it’s all she can do to hold back tears and screams of pain and frustration, and it’s really, really not her soul mate’s fault.

“I know,” she whispers. “And I—when I’m ready, I promise. I just—” her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, swallowing heavily. “I’m not there. I—right now it’s all I can do to keep breathing.”

(a brutal truth, but honesty about that much feels like something he deserves.)

Draco bites his lip but nods in understanding—hates it, but has been there too. “Can I—are you—do you want to go to bed?”

Hermione doesn’t respond verbally, but lays down, scooching closer until he does the same. She slides her arms around his waist, tucking her face into his bare chest and breathing more easily when the familiar scent envelops her.

And it’s—as tense as it felt a few minutes ago, as volatile as they both feel internally, at the end of the day they know they’re okay if they’re with each other; even during spats like this, even during full-out fights they’ve had, they understand each other so deeply, are too committed to each other and each other’s happiness to ever truly take it to heart.

“I want to do something not in secret,” she blurts out sleepily. “Together. The Polyjuice you use for ASA meetings, or I can get hair from someone or—I don’t know. But I just want one day where we can go to lunch or coffee or something like normal people.”

Draco hums, a hand moving up and down along her spine. “That sounds great, baby. I’m sure we can figure something out. Tonks would help—Sirius too.”

Another moment of silence, and then, so softly he almost misses it. “I—I really am sorry about before. I know I overreacted, but I—”

Her face is hidden, but they’re so close together he can feel the beginnings of tears spill against his sternum, where her head is tucked under his chin.

“I’m sorry too. I pushed, and that’s not what you need right now. I just—” he stares at the bookshelves adorning the walls in the dim of the room. “It’s like you’re Atlas—you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you do it so well no one thinks to worry that it’s hurting you, and I just—want to help shoulder the burden. You always do for me, but I don’t feel like I’m always…contributing as much.”

“Well you’re very good in bed, so that is a great contribution.”

Draco pokes her in the side but snorts, familiar to her humor deflection during emotional moments—something he’s noticed she and Harry both do frequently, so unused to expressing emotion, to having others speak positively about and to them.

(as hellish as his home life is, he’s always had his mother—has always known he’s loved.)

“Really, though,” Hermione speaks. “I feel like you’re my emotional support crutch constantly. You do…so much more for me than you will ever know. I—I couldn’t do it without you and Harry. I really, really couldn’t. You—” she breathes, and he tries not to flinch when the soft puff of air tickles the bare skin of his chest. “You make this world bearable.”

(They whisper I love you, and they’re both passed out within ten minutes, while Crookshanks lays at their feet.)

/

They’re leaving double potions, the one class Gryffindor and Slytherin fifth years all have together this year; the hallway is packed, obviously, and it’s the last class on a Friday, so everyone is noisy and distracted.

(Hermione’s just a couple feet behind her, but it’s not just the proximity—she’s the only one paying enough attention to notice.)

Pansy’s walking alone, and Hermione doesn’t notice until Roger Davies is right there—until he’s “accidentally” bumping Pansy’s shoulder,

He whispers something as he passes, too soft for Hermione to hear, but Pansy’s entire body goes rigid.

Roger smirks—and it’s a familiar smirk to Hermione, the expression of a man without a care in the world.

(The expression of a man who knows no harm he causes will ever have consequences.)

She’d had a strong inkling she and Pansy had that in common, but at the predatory golden-boy smile, she _knows_ it’s him—he’s Pansy’s monster.

Pansy stands frozen where she’d paused, but before anyone else can notice Hermione hurries to her—gently reaches for her arm where she can see it coming.

“Just breathe,” she whispers, steering the other girl down the hallway. “I know somewhere we can go. Somewhere safe.”

Pansy nods, muscles tight and fists clenched, but follows her up to the eighth floor, where she does nothing more than raise an eyebrow at the manifestation of the Room of Requirement.

Hermione asks the room for plush couches and a pile of soft throw blankets, and the magic doesn’t disappoint; they curl up on opposite seats, facing each other, and she can tell the weight of blankets is soothing to Pansy like it is herself; the weight feels safe, and grounding, and reminds her that she’s _here_.

They’re both quiet for a moment, and Hermione can guess from experience that Pansy’s unable to tear her mind from hellish memories, so she says, _“Liquor?”_ and Pansy says, _“Merlin, yes,”_ and then they’re making their way through a handle of tequila.

(Which, she knows Harry will frown about, but—long term repercussions of alcoholism are the least of her worries.)

(That’s the thing—nothing anyone says will deter her, because yeah drinking has some negative impacts but it’s all she can do right now to make it through the day, and when it feels so hard to breathe every moment of the day she thinks it’s a hell of a lot better to fuck over her liver than abstain from the coping mechanism and end up caving to the dark impulses in her mind she never mentions to her boys.)

(To do so would be…much more permanent.)

Which, in all honesty, is probably why Harry hasn’t pushed the issue yet this term, hasn’t tried to talk to Draco about the severity to get him to help have an intervention.

(If it gets her through the day, if it keeps her alive long enough to someday _have _an intervention…it’s the best she can do, right now.)

All of her energy goes to holding herself together at the cracks—pushing the broken pieces together so tight no one can tell she’s crumbling.

(Which means the broken pieces just keep hurting her more, but she doesn’t have it in her to deal with right now.)

She turns her attention to Pansy, though, because it’s easier to help someone else through hell than try to escape her own—isn’t that why she plays the mothering role in all her friendships, after all?

“I was surprised to see you at the ASA meetings,” she says tentatively, fumbling for something to talk about. “From what I’d heard…well, I just expected that you wouldn’t want to risk your family finding out.”

“Well, they won’t what with your security spells, will they? And,” Pansy contorts her lips into a smirk, though her eyes remain hollow. “I really don’t care if they do. They’d be livid, but there’s nothing they can do to me I haven’t already been through.”

_Yes_, something in Hermione screams, because the sentiment resonates—it’s something she thinks whenever her mother tries to remind her of safety precautions to take, of dodgy places to avoid.

“It’s really cool of you to do, by the way—and to let everyone join.”

Hermione shrugs bashfully. “It’s—it shouldn’t be a surprise that we did. I hate the house rivalry, and Dumbledore….well, anyway.” After a beat, she swallows before gently saying, “He—if you don’t want him there, I can—kick him out, obliviate him, whatever we need to do.”

She’s not talking about Dumbledore, now; carefully avoids saying his name, in case it sets Pansy off like her uncle’s does herself.

Pansy blows out a heavy breath, shaking her head rapidly. “I—I appreciate the offer. Really. But…it would be more trouble than it’s worth. Everyone thinks he’s…”

She trails off, because it’s obvious—he’s Quidditch captain, and beloved to both his house and the school; he has a golden reputation and no one would be capable of doing anything bad.

And Hermione’s heart screeches with feeling so fucking _validated_, because she _knows_ this—gets it, viscerally.

They both down two more shots, and after a few moments of content quiet, once the alcohol has kicked in a bit more, Pansy quietly speaks. “We dated. Last year. He—he wanted to keep it a secret, said it was romantic that way, and…he’s older, and a Quidditch star, and just seemed so far out of my league, and I felt so _lucky_ that he wanted to be with me.” A bitter laugh escapes her, and she pours another drink before continuing. “And it felt—so exciting, at first. Like I was special, and this thing being just between us meant it was precious.

“And then he—it—” Pansy closes her eyes, swallowing heavily. “The whole thing became a horror show. And it was in the middle of the Triwizard Tournament, so no one was paying attention anyway. And then he was—hurting me every way a person can, and no one knew to worry, and—” she chokes, fists clenching with frustration.

Hermione laughs bitterly. “And telling would be useless, because no one would believe him capable of any of it. Of fucking course. He’s a hotshot superstar man, and they can do no wrong. Everyone always…god, they all always think they know a person, that they know they wouldn’t do it, but just because he’s never preyed on _them_ they don’t think he’s a monster.”

The other girl gestures in emphasis, nodding. “Exactly. Telling would be—just, _useless_. I’m in Slytherin, and everyone in this fucking hell school thinks we’re evil, so why the fuck would anyone ever believe me? Over him?” She chuckles darkly, and both of them finish off the drink they have in hand.

“What a shitty world. Be nice if our bodies just—I don’t know, belonged to ourselves.”

“What a fucking concept.”

Hermione hums, before gently asking. “No one else knows?”

“Nope. Madam Pomfrey—suspects, I guess. I tried to handle it all on my own, but I went to the hospital wing for a few broken bones, and…anyway, when she started getting suspicious I stopped going. Started healing them on my own. Not that I was good at it at first, but I got the hang of them after a while.”

“Nifty talent,” Hermione raises her eyebrows, impressed.

“What about you?” Pansy asks—and it’s about whether she’s had to go to Pomfrey, but also deeper than that.

(When you’ve been there, you know—so Pansy can see her soul right back. Wouldn’t have opened up about any of it if she didn’t know she was among her own.)

“She’s never…it’s over breaks, for me. And before Hogwarts.”

And Pansy’s face twitches—

(because before Hogwarts means before age eleven, and no one likes to acknowledge that it happens then; no one talks about how it can be your earliest memory, the main thing you recall from childhood. it’s too horrifying for them all to consider.)

(so they don’t.)

(Hermione’s never had the luxury.)

But Pansy doesn’t dwell, or pity her—she has a look like she knows something about going through fucked up things at a young age, so she sails along, as Hermione had done for her. “Muggle, then?”

“Yep. And beloved by the community, like they all are—a politician, actually.”

The other girl mimes gagging irreverently, pouring another shot for herself and then Hermione as well. “Of course he is. Men are monsters with or without magic.”

They toast to the sentiment, and it’s—wonderful and horrible, and Hermione can already tell that being close to Pansy is going to be so _good_ for her.

(she knows the darkness, too.)

A few hours in, when they’re both properly plastered, the door swings open and Draco strolls inside; he doesn’t spot Pansy at first, just clambers onto their usual couch and draws Hermione into his arms before she can stumble through a warning.

Pansy raises her eyebrows, making Draco jump by saying, “That’s cute but I’m not one for watching so don’t get too steamy over there.”

“Merlin, Pans,” he moans, pressing a hand to his chest. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“We’re friends now,” Hermione informs him. “I love her.”

“That’s wonderful, love, but—” Draco sniffs at her, raising an eyebrow. “Mia, are you _drunk_?”

She nods with a giggle. “Very. We’ve been—destressing.”

He rolls his eyes, pulling her closer to him. “Of course you have. You realize it’s not even dark out yet, you heathens.”

(She feels guilty—that she’s hidden it so well that he doesn’t know to worry.)

His mind is far away; he stares down Pansy with a worried expression.

But the girl just snorts at his narrowed eyes. “Chill, Malfoy. I’m not going to tell anyone about your little secret relationship. I’ve known for a while, anyway.”

Hermione’s neck snaps towards her, this surprising even through the haze of drunkenness. “You _what_?”

Pansy laughs, a bemused smile on her face. “Yeah. I mean, I’m sure you’re both careful, but you stare at each other when the other person isn’t looking way more than any enemies do. Like, you’re good at hiding your emotions when you need to and all—I mean, all of us with fucked up childhoods are, it’s just a thing—but anyway, as much as your expressions are closed off, you can’t keep your eyes off each other. Not to mention…well, I know you, Malfoy. And I pay attention.”

“Yeah, I really love you,” Hermione announces decisively, reaching her cup out to cheers with an amused but beaming Pansy.

Draco just shakes his head, fingers massaging at his temple. “At this rate everyone but the middle weasel knows. Hell. Not that I don’t trust you, Pans, but…anyone knowing is dangerous.”

She purses her lips. “So then why don’t you have all of us who know make an Unbreakable Vow not to tell? Or use that secret keeping spell you concocted for ASA.” They both blink in surprise, and she arches an eyebrow. “How can you be two of the smartest people on the planet and yet so lacking in common sense?”

Hermione shrugs. “That’s what we keep Blaise and Ginny around for.”

Pansy heads out a bit later, citing having had enough social interaction for the day and needing some alone time, but she hugs Hermione goodbye in a way that lets her know this isn’t a one-time thing.

(How could it be? When you find someone with the same wounds on their soul…well, you keep them.)

“So, what exactly did you and Pansy Parkinson talk about while getting plastered for several hours?”

“Just girl stuff.” Draco gives her a look, so she acquiesces. “Shitty childhoods and trauma and whatnot. It was…really good. I think her and Harry would get along. If she doesn’t terrify him.”

He tenses. “She and Ginny are never allowed to become friends.”

“The fact that the prospect is so terrifying makes me think that is _exactly _what is going to happen.”

They get out their homework, eventually, but her thoughts drift to Roger Davies.

It’s—she understands why Pansy hasn’t said anything. Why she never will.

(Understands it more than she understands almost anything in this life.)

But the fact that he’s just a student—just some asshole breaking things to feel powerful.

(breaking skin and bones and spirit.)

He deserves retribution—doesn’t deserve his reputation. And Pansy deserves so much more than to have to hear all of her peers, her _friends_, singing his praises. It makes Hermione nauseous to even imagine what the other girl is feeling, to imagine feeling some of the things Pansy had mentioned he’d done—

(at which point she remembers that yes, actually, she can imagine, because she’s been through it too.)

It’s not the same, of course, it’s different for every person—even every time—but the fact remains she’s so horrified when it’s someone else—

(so desensitized to the violence that’s been wrought over her own body—so dissociated from it.

(it’s…Sirius might have a point, about her needing to talk to someone. and Harry, about telling Draco being good for her.)

(soon. She’ll—figure things out, soon.)

But in the meantime…Roger Davies needs to be dealt with. The side of her that made a rare appearance to handle Rita Skeeter…it’s thrumming, more angry than ever, and she has a feeling Sirius and Aunt Andy would absolutely be willing to lend a hand.

(Hermione will find a way to fuck him up.)

/

“I have a question,” George announces, sitting down beside her on the bleachers.

It’s a Gryffindor Quidditch practice, and she’s been coming (with homework) fairly regularly since Ron is still new and can use the support; Ginny’s there, too, having been made the reserve player (which she was uniquely qualified for as someone good at _every _position, thanks to all of her experience rotating in for whichever brother wasn’t around or playing any given game).

It’s their mid-practice break, and the others are all laying on the field allegedly trying to read the clouds divination style, thogh Hermione’s fairly certain they just didn’t feel like getting up to walk to the locker room and grab a snack.

“Go for it,” she says to George, turning to face him expectantly.

“How do you and Boyfriend’s roommates not notice that you’re gone all the time? You stay in the RoR at least one if not several nights every week, and they just—don’t catch on?”

Hermione grins. “Perks to being a bookworm—everyone just assumes I’m doing homework somewhere or in the library. I’ve been known to fall asleep there in the past, so they usually just figure I’m there till after they’ve fallen asleep, and they think I get up early to start on studying as early as possible. They actually are under the impression I’m quite the naturally early riser.”

George’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding me—you are the _opposite_ of a morning person. I have _scars_ from trying to wake you up early!”

She shrugs, eyes shining with laughter. “I can’t help that they’ve come to some incorrect conclusions. And it works to my advantage, so.”

“Of course it does. Merlin.” He shakes his head. “And Boyfriend?”

“Oh, well they think he sleeps around a lot, so they assume he’s there if he’s gone at night—and he’s similarly a good student, so they likewise think he’s doing work. He also—” she snorts, but continues, “most of them aren’t convinced that he’s not the Heir of Slytherin—his father coming to campus after the last day the chamber was opened fueled the rumors, and of course they’re all too terrified to ask and he’s never going to deny it. There’s a rumor among them that he has more plush accommodations set up for himself in the Chamber, and so he spends lots of time there. It’s kind of hilarious, actually.”

“To be fair, the RoR is more plush accommodations.”

“Touche.”

They sit in companionable silence, until a few minutes later when Fred and Harry both shout—and Ginny’s cackle rings across the field.

“What on—oh my god.” Hermione presses a hand to muffle her own giggles at the sigh of both boys drenched and shivering, the now-empty water cooler sideways on the ground beside them, and Ginny a few yards away looking entirely guilty and unapologetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * chapter title from drown by Bring Me the Horizon
> 
> Next chapter: career advising mtgs w Minnie my queen (ft umblegh), more pansy, ASA. Lmk if there’s anything particular you’d like to see and I will see where/how I might squeeze it in
> 
> Also WERE GETTING A PJO SHOW NOTHING ELSE MATTERS IN THE WORLD
> 
> lots of love—take care of yourselves.


	20. pretty venom in my veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot more Harry-centric than usual this chapter; stealing some exact lines for this one bc perhaps THE most iconic scene. Minnie owns me.

Harry steps into Professor McGonagall’s office, feeling his heart drop at the sight of Umbridge in a plush chair in the corner.

The toad has recently begun sitting in on the classes of professors she distrusts, but Hermione’d predicted it was only a matter of time until she started infiltrating _all _other teachers’ space—he shouldn’t be surprised she was right.

(Still, her presence in his career advising meeting with his head of house is jolting—a reminder that right now, no space is truly safe.)

“Do sit down, Mister Potter. Have a biscuit, if Miss Patil and Mister Finnegan have left any.”

He smiles nervously, the kind of lipless upward curve of the mouth that makes him cringe whenever he sees it in a mirror, but reaches for a biscuit nonetheless; if he’s eating, he can’t say anything incriminating in front of Umbridge.

“So.” McGonagall clears her throat, sipping from a mug of coffee despite the late hour, and this being her last meeting for the day. “Obviously you’ve yet to take your OWLs, but your class performance and experience is a good indicator of subjects you may want to avoid needing, or may want to pursue further. I have pamphlets as well, regarding different careers and the requirements and lifestyles therein, if you need to peruse a bit. Do you have anything in particular in mind?”

Harry fidgets in his seat. “Er—well, I’ve thought a bit about becoming an Auror.”

Her face softens, and she eyes him with an unreadable expression.

(A boy with messy, dark hair and glasses sitting across from her wanting to be an Auror.)

“What?”

(she blinks, drags herself back from the identical memory from twenty years prior, the same conversation with the same boy, the only differences an unblemished forehead and hazel eyes.)

“Nothing—you just reminded me of someone for a moment.” She adjusts her spectacles, using the moment to blink back wistful tears and steel herself. “Very well. You’ll need Transfiguration, no worries there, as well as Charms, Herbology, Defense, and Potions—yes, Potions, so be sure to keep up with the course regardless of your feelings about Professor Snape.”

Umbridge snorts. “He will not be an Auror.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrow, and she sits up straighter; while Harry’s always been intimidated by the older woman, in this moment he truly considers that she is _scary_—powerful, and fearsome, and he does not _ever _want to be on the receiving end of that anger.

“Excuse me? He’s done well on all of his Defense tests and excelled throughout the courses themselves, let alone his practical application. I see no reason why he can’t.”

Umbridge sniffs, crossing her arms with a superior smirk. “If you look at the recent data I’ve provided, he’s been doing _very _poorly in my class.”

McGonagall’s eyebrow twitches, and it’s almost visible, the exact moment she decides to let the bitch have it. “Of course, I’m sorry, I should have made my meaning plainer. He has achieved high marks in all Defense tests set by a competent teacher.”

Umbridge’s cheeks flush scarlet. “How _dare _you! I will—”

“You’ll what? I’m the best teacher in this school, I have tenure and every qualification, and I think you’ll find those you would rally to your side have also been my pupils.” She crosses her arms with a raised eyebrow, all of it a statement of fact. “However they may feel about me as a person, I am the reason they passed their OWLs. They won’t risk their children not being able to do so.”

A scowl forms on Umbridge’s face. “He will _not_ be an Auror, I promise you.”

“Potter, I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do.” McGonagall bites out the words, eyes still locked on the other professor; meanwhile Harry sinks lower in his chair, body tense. “If I have to coach you nightly, I will do so—whatever is necessary to make sure you achieve the required results!”

“The Minister for Magic will never employ Harry Potter!”

“Says you—and on _what_ authority? Whatever shiny badges and decrees Cornelius gives you, you’re no more the Queen of England than I am. Besides,” her lip curls, “There may well be a new Minister for Magic by the time he is ready to join.”

“Aha! Yes! Yes, of course! That’s what you want, isn’t it, Minerva? You want Dumbledore to replace Cornelius, so that you can be where I am!”

McGonagall rubs at her temples. “You are—utterly delusional. I won’t dignify that by responding. Merlin.”

“Say whatever you like, I know the truth,” Umbridge insists, before storming out of the classroom.

“I thought she’d never leave,” the professor sighs, reaching again for her coffee. “It’s almost comical, that she thinks I want Albus in any sort of power.”

Harry lets out a deep breath, sitting up slowly, the confrontation having sent him into the headspace of his childhood.

(where yelling meant bruises and beatings, meant going without meals and days upon days locked in the cupboard, staring at the spiders in the crevices of the stairs above him and imagining another life.)

McGonagall settles her gaze on him, eyes once again soft but firm, though her face retains a bit of the angry red. “Now, then—you will not be an Auror.”

He blinks at her. “What—but I thought—” he trails off, biting his lip with a frown.

(for a moment, there, it had felt like she believed in him.)

“You misunderstand me.” She holds the cookie tin out to him, doesn’t put it down until he’s chewing on one. “You are perfectly capable of being an Auror—I have no doubt that you would be adept, and up for the job. You _could_, Mister Potter. But you aren’t built for that.”

“But I’m good at it. Er—I mean, I’ve managed with Voldemort and the tournament and the chamber of secrets, so I just figured—I mean, that’s what I want to do.”

Her gaze is faraway when she responds. “I do not disagree. You are _very _good at it. But the things we do because we must, the things we do to survive—they are often not the things we do to _live_.” Her eyes find his. “Harry, you hate conflict. You deal with it because you have to, and you have adapted amazingly to this life that continues to challenge you. You are _good_ at combat and stopping dark wizards. But that’s not who you are. That’s who you’ve had to be.”

“I—” he swallows heavily. “I don’t know who I am outside of that, though. This—surviving—is all I know.”

McGonagall gives him a small smile. “Close, maybe, but I think you’ve managed to find your heart nonetheless. This defense group Sirius keeps bragging about—do you enjoy it?”

His heart thumps at the mention of ASA, but she doesn’t seem to want to reprimand him for it, so he says, “I—yeah, actually. I was really nervous about it, only went through with it because Mia talked me into it, but—I love seeing how much progress everyone’s making. This one second year was struggling so much at the beginning of term, he could barely cast a lumos, and last week he managed the patronus charm, and I have so many ideas for after Christmas and the ways I’m going to introduce offensive spells and—sorry, I’m rambling.”

“Don’t apologize—you’re making me even more certain that my idea was correct.” Her eyes shine with—pride, maybe? “Do you know who you sound like, Mister Potter?”

“Who?”

“Me. Remus. Filius.” The corners of her lips curve upward. “Any good teacher, who cares deeply about their students.”

Harry cocks his head to the side, eyes wide. “You—you think I should teach? That I would be good at it?”

“I think you already are. I think you’ve never considered it because you’ve been taught that the only way to be one of the good guys is to be the one changing the world, to be on the frontlines of efforts to shape society. But you can do just as much, if not more, at the front of a classroom—it’s changing worlds all the same. You care about those you’re teaching—about their learning, but also about them as people, which matters just as much.” She adjusts her spectacles. “You and Mister Malfoy both have grown up in circumstances that have made you creatures of war out of necessity—but at heart, you are nurturing beings. I believe it would be a shame not to pursue that.”

He nods, agreeing to think on it some, before providing the Quidditch updates she then requests.

He’s lost in thought the entire way up to the RoR, where he finds everyone else half chatting half doing homework, a rare night when Hermione, Draco, and Pansy are all off of Prefect patrols.

“How’d it go?” Hermione asks, holding up a bag of m&ms in offering.

He takes a few, chewing before answering. “Good. Er, well, initially not good, but then McGonagall roasted Umbridge and she left and—now I have a lot to think about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, she called Umbridge incompetent to her face.”

Blaise grins gleefully. “You’re joking!”

“Nope. Umbridge said I wasn’t doing well in Defense, and she told her I had done well on all the tests we’ve had before set by competent teachers.”

Ginny pretends to dab at a tear. “I’ve never been so proud to be a Gryffindor.”

Pansy raises an eyebrow from her seat beside Hermione, a smirk forming on her face. “You know what the best part about that is?”

“The way Umbridge’s whole face turned purple?” Harry offers, earning more snickers.

“No—well, yes, that is wonderful, and we should get a pensieve so we can all experience it.” She looks like she’s seriously considering putting an order in as she says it. “But what I mean is that it implies that even _Lockhart _was more competent than her.” 

Draco slow claps his appreciation, laughing too hard to speak.

Hermione gives a bemused smile before turning back to Harry. “You said it gave you a lot to think about?”

“Yeah. I mean I went in planning on being an Auror, but—”

He’s interrupted by Ginny and Blaise guffawing; he looks to them and then at Hermione, who’s clearly concealing her own laughter. “What? Why is that so funny?”

“Potter, you are _not_ a cop,” Draco snorts, shaking his head with disbelief. “You would be miserable doing that for a living.”

“It’s true, Harry,” Hermione agrees with a gentle hand on his shoulder, as though it might cushion the blow. “You can’t stand confrontation, you don’t like arguing or having to bear bad news, it’s…I don’t even have words for how not you it is.”

The boy in question sprawls on a beanbag on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “Did _everyone_ but me know this?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You say that like it’s not usually the case.”

/

While they’ve all gained newfound respect for McGonagall, her barb has consequences; Umbridge begins sitting in on_all _teachers’ classes, regardless of student performance.

Not that she’s _doing_ anything (yet), but her presence is enough to darken the entire atmosphere of each classroom, to stifle the joy and organic interactions that usually occur.

“Does she not have her own classes to teach,” Ron mutters when she enters the Charms classroom. “Hermione, I know I promised to try not to get detention, but if she makes any degrading remarks about werewolves, all bets are off.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “If she makes any degrading remarks about werewolves, I’ll be in detention with you.”

Nonetheless, she turns on the tape recorder she’d charmed to work on Hogwarts grounds almost hoping Umbridge will say something awful, so she can add it to the evidence she’s mounting for her eventual takedown.

(The second she’d shed Harry’s blood—the second Hermione had found out all the rights she’d worked to strip from Remus—Umbridge was a dead woman.)

They’re grouped to work on _homeneum revelio_, one person practicing at a time before receiving feedback from the other three in their group.

Hermione’s grouped with Neville, Pansy, and Crabbe (because Remus is at least _pretending _to be impartial). Pansy performs it nearly perfectly, and Neville smiles hesitantly. “That was awesome, Pansy. I think—erm, just a suggestion, but—if you change your grip on the wand and emphasize the jerk a bit more you might maximize it a bit?”

Pansy eyes him, but the thing about Neville is that he spent so long being told he was bad at magic, so long being told he’s not good enough, that he pays better attention than anyone else in the hopes of getting better—it’s just ingrained in him.

(So even if he’s not the best in the room at performing spells, he’s the best at noticing things—the best at seeing the smallest of differences in execution.)

All of which Pansy has picked up on; she’s a person who pays attention to people, which is the way she’d figured out about Draco and Hermione.

(She’s paid attention to Neville, too.)

So she does what he’d mentioned—raises her eyebrows when she can feel the charm working with exponentially more strength.

Neville looks nervous—like he expects Pansy to be mad that his advice was helpful.

(but whatever Slytherin façade she maintains, she knows what it’s like to feel small. what it’s like to know everyone assumes the worst.)

She cocks an eyebrow, pursing her lips. “Thanks, Longbottom.”

His mouth drops open in surprise, eyes wide, and she feels herself grin wickedly, a little too pleased by how powerful it makes her feel to be able to shock someone so solid.

Meanwhile, Hermione pays them little attention, tuning into the corner of the room where Umbridge is questioning Remus.

The beauty of Remus Lupin—among about a hundred other things—is that he’s so capable of remaining calm.

(It’s a skill gained from a lifetime of hiding, a lifetime of discrimination and bigotry and maltreatment—a skill he never should’ve had to develop.)

(But a skill nonetheless.)

Umbridge does everything she can to provoke him—says shitty things about whether his teaching quality is impacted once a month, or how he feels qualified to train students for careers he’d never be allowed to obtain, about his not truly belonging at Hogwarts. The kind of accusations that would make anyone murderous and lash out, even the most slow to anger of wizards.

But Remus just meets her eyes sagely, says, _“it’s kind of you to be so invested in my feelings, Dolores,” _and subdues a grin when she grows visibly pissed off.

The more he remains unbothered, the darker her comments—she continues trying to upset him into reacting negatively so she can mark it down, but there’s nothing she can say he hasn’t heard before, and she’s increasingly enraged by his non-reactions.

Hermione internally cheers him on, though she wants to deck Umbridge for the obscenities she’s spewing herself; she takes deep breaths and reminds herself she’s recording it all—this monster won’t get away with it.

(For as restrained as Remus is, he and Sirius have always been like night and day; Sirius would fight god himself to defend his husband.)

(And all of the power Umbridge believes she holds is political—they’ll see what happens when the leader of one of the most ancient houses declares himself her enemy.)

Umbridge is disparaging his teaching, now; claiming he’s allowing his opinions to influence what he teaches the students to believe.

Remus smiles, lazily tucking his wand behind his ear, in a way that looks suave but Hermione knows has its roots in years of doing the same with a pencil. “Actually, I am especially careful to only ever present objective material, stated in such a way as to not impact student thought at all. I just give the facts. The facts just happen to line up with my beliefs.” A corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk. “It’s almost like the facts are what I use to _form_ my opinion. You might like to try it sometime.”

The smirk, the quip—Hermione has to suck in a breath, shocked for just a beat by how incredibly attracted she is to Harry’s uncle.

(It’s abundantly clear how managed to ensnare the most eligible bachelor in England.)

/

They’d protean charmed galleons for the DA, as well as sickles for just their inner circle of friends; it’s this sickle that Hermione feels warm as she’s leaving her last lesson for the day, pulling it out to see Draco calling for an emergency meet up.

When she makes it to the RoR, the others are already there; the twins and Harry looking through a Quidditch magazine with Blaise, Draco pacing before the fireplace, and Ginny sitting near Pansy, both of them looking entirely too happy for everyone to be safe.

“What’s going on?” Hermione rubs at her eyes, but no, she’s not hallucinating—there’s a diamondback rattlesnake wrapped around Pansy’s shoulders. “Pansy—why?”

“This is Ella—my familiar.”

Hermione clasps her hands, pressing them to her mouth as she searches for words. “I—but—why a poisonous snake?”

Pansy shrugs, stroking the top of the snake’s head gently. “Why not? Haven’t you ever heard that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?”

“Yes, of course, but I believe most girls enjoy diamond _jewels_, not diamond_backs_.”

The other girl wiggles her fingers, the light catching on the many rings that adorn them. “I like that kind, too.”

Harry smiles at Hermione in greeting. “Ella’s really sweet, Mia. I swear. And it’s nice—I haven’t gotten to use my parsletongue in ages.”

Hermione shakes her head, sliding into her usual seat with a baffled expression. “I am already _so _confused by this day. Am I dreaming?”

“If you are, it’s about to become a bit of a nightmare,” Draco says with a frown. “We have a problem.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Ten knuts says Dumbledore did dumb shit again.”

Fred raises an eyebrow. “You’re on—fifteen says someone’s trying to kill Harry.”

Harry doesn’t look bothered by this, merely tilts his head thoughtfully. “I feel like that’s not really a fair bet to place since it’s pretty much invariably true at any given moment.”

Draco tugs at his hair, exasperation on his face. “It doesn’t matter, because they’re both wrong. It’s Umbridge.”

Hermione mimes retching, and Pansy snaps in agreement.

“She’s created what she’s calling the Inquisitorial Squad—it’s basically a smaller set of Prefects, handpicked to do her bidding and spy on the rest of the student body. And all members of the Squad will outrank Prefects.”

Ginny’s eyes blaze with anger. “She did _what_? What the hell, can she even do that?”

“Evidently.”

Harry’s brows scrunch together. “When do they start—patrolling, or whatever? And how did you find out about this?”

“Tomorrow at breakfast. And I know because,” he grimaces, “because she’s chosen me to be one of them. It’s all Slytherins.”

Blaise frowns. “Why would she do that—not even attempt to pretend?”

Fred frowns, meeting Hermione’s eyes to confirm they’re thinking the same thing. “She’s trying to undermine the interhouse unity ASA’s been building—not that she knows that’s why, but—if we’re all friends we’re a lot more likely to hear each other out rather than blindly standing with the side our parents are on.”

“Think about it,” Hermione continues, a calculating look on her face. “Putting one house in positions of power that undermine the Prefect system means people are going to be inherently resentful. Picking the side that’s traditionally been separate from the rest, aligning them with herself when she knows we all hate her—it’s going to be incredibly effective.”

Harry’s eyes grow sad; the unity across the four houses had been—the highlight of his time at Hogwarts.

(And Umbridge is just—snuffing it out, without a care, for the sake of power.)

“What do we do?”

Hermione crosses her arms, jaw set. “We tell them. Next meeting, we're honest with everyone. Not that it will keep it from happening, but…if everyone can keep in mind why it’s happening, maybe they can redirect their anger from squad members to her—to remember who the real enemy is.”

(At this point, it’s all they can do.)

/

Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Pansy are in the RoR having a girls night, complete with wine and an adapted muggle radio playing angsty music they keep stopping to sing along to mid-sentence.

It’s something she’s never had before—a group of female friends. Maybe it’s because she’s always been bookish, or because she’s not good at verbal expression of emotion, or because she’s always been so closed off.

(Maybe it’s because for whatever reason, despite her uncle being the perpetrator, she feels such bone deep resentment toward her mother for standing by—for being a woman and yet still allowing her to be hurt like this, for not noticing or caring that it’s destroying her.

(For pretending like they have a positive relationship, like she loves her, like if she checks off the other parenting boxes it’s fine that she ignores this thing that makes her daughter’s knuckles white.)

(it makes no sense, she knows it, but while her uncle makes her scared and hurt, the thought of her mother fills her with unadulterated rage like nothing else.)

It’s impacted her relationships with other women for as long as she can remember—she’s always struggled to have them, and she’s pretty sure it’s a big reason why her relationship with Molly Weasley has always been so perilous.

(The woman is used to children trusting and loving her, relying on her, and Hermione’s just—not capable of it. at least not yet.)

She and Ginny have been best friends for years now, of course, but it’s different there too, because Ginny has six older brothers and as such also had initial difficulty making friends with girls, whose habits and hobbies she’d never known.

(something Ginny quickly adapted to, but nonetheless, Hermione’s friendship with her had always been that easy.)

And then there’s been Luna, but she’s always had the kindest heart—has not even noticed when Hermione was bad at having traditionally feminine conversations, has been happy for their friendship to be whatever works.

But this—having a group of girls, being able to talk about love interests and recent life updates and aspirations and weird things that have happened on their periods and the best places to get cute bras for cheap—it’s entirely new to her.

(And she loves it.)

They’re playing some truth or dare drinking game, and it’s silly and ridiculous but that’s what makes it wonderful—they’ve all been through a lot of shit, and their world is chaos right now, but they can take a break from the horrible burning of life for a moment, and sit here and giggle over such inconsequential things.

(There’s a power to it—such a tremendous grounding, in knowing within them is the ability to smile despite life currently being hell.)

(because of it.)

The door opens, and they all straighten up, laughter flowing among them as they wait to see who it is, and Harry comes in, striding over to sit down next to Hermione.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to crash girls’ night.”

“You’re fine, Harry,” Hermione promises. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I was just bored and wanted company but Ron and Seamus are playing the most boring never ending game of chess, so I figured I would come see who was here.”

He smiles at Ginny and Pansy, eyes gong wide at the sight of the blonde among them. “Oh, hello! I know you from ASA—you’re in Ravenclaw, right? Sorry, I’ve never been able to catch your name.”

Hermione blindly reaches to clutch Ginny’s hand beside her, teeming with excitement because whether the redhead knows it or not _this is it_—finally, and she gets to witness it.

(It takes everything in her to hold back a joyful grin.)

“Yes, that hasn’t exactly been an accident,” Luna explains, a small smile on her face when Harry grows confused. “You’ve had a lot on your plate—I didn’t want to pile on.”

“What do you mean?” His voice is polite, but very clearly lost.

She moves to tuck her hair behind both ears, expression happy but not at all nervous—

(a serene calm, like she knows with Harry there’s never any cause for worry.)

“I’m—”

“Luna,” he breathes, eyes caught on the back of her hand, where his most recent stretch of detentions (this time incurred after responding to her comments toward Remus, Ron in detention right beside him) has made the _I must not tell lies_ on his hand (and hers) permanent.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Luna says, eyes twinkling when Harry blushes profusely.

/

Hermione squints at the bright light that wakes her, groaning as she opens her eyes feeling not nearly well rested, but immediately alert. “Who—”

It’s only then that she realizes it’s not a light, but Harry’s patronus speaking to her.

_ “Mia, get Gin—Mr. Weasley’s been attacked. Ron and I are going to Dumbledore’s office now.”_

“Lumos,” she whispers, grabbing the robe beside her bed and hurrying to the adjacent dormitory to shake Ginny awake.

They grab Fred and George on their way, all stumbling their way through the halls before nearly crashing into McGonagall a few yards from the gargoyle; it’s a marker of how serious the situation is that the twins don’t comment on her robe and slippers.

She sighs, looking like she would reprimand them if the circumstances were anything else. “I should’ve known you’d already be on your way. Come along, then—Professor Dumbledore is arranging an emergency portkey for you.”

“How’s our dad?” George demands, voicing what they’re all thinking.

“He’s—not well, yet, but he will be. They got him in time,” McGonagall promises as they make their way up the spiral staircase to the headmaster’s office.

When they enter, Dumbledore smiles calmly like everything is fine, speaking in his lilting way of making everything seem under control that makes Hermione want to stun him into the cinderblock.

It’s not her parent, but Arthur was the first adult to ever truly care about her, she thinks—and while Sirius and Remus are like fathers to her, before they were in her life Arthur was the one greeting her parents and attempting to use muggle things to pick her up to come stay at the Burrow, and—

(he _has _to be okay.)

She’s so anxious she can’t breathe, and her chest hurts, and then the floo fires up and a sleepy but alert Remus comes inside, having identity-locked floo capabilities as a teacher straightening his sweater before stepping to hug and reassure them all.

(And then she and Harry both exhale, because if Remus is here—they’re okay.)

Ron clenches his arms, stiff in the way that means he’s terrified. “Professor Lupin—not that we’re not always happy to see you, but—what are you doing here?”

Remus gives an understanding smile. “Your mother asked that I come collect you, take the Portkey with you to make sure you get home okay. She’s at St. Mungo’s now—you’ll be coming to Tonks Manor for a bit, just until he’s out of critical care and can have visitors. Percy’s already there with Dora setting up rooms for you all.”

“Somehow I have a feeling he was already there _anyway_,” Fred whispers, trying to lighten the mood.

They spin into the Manor living room, where all three Tonks family members are waiting; Sirius is beside them, immediately pulling Harry in for a tight hug without a word.

The Weasleys, all emotionally volatile and worried and drained, follow Ted and Andy to the guest rooms; Harry’s eyes are wide awake, so Hermione doesn’t move towards her own bedroom.

(Where all of her things are, because she lives here permanently, now—she hadn’t processed it fully until now.)

(this is home now—she never has to go back.)

“What’s wrong, Harry?” she asks, following his lead as he shakily seats on the couch.

“They found out because of me. I had another one of my dreams—nightmares—but…it was real. It really happened.” He shivers, face pale. “Voldemort’s snake attacked Mr. Weasley and I—saw it. In my own head.”

Before she can come up with a reply, Sirius reappears, holding hot mugs of tea out to both of them before throwing a knit blanket over both of their laps.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he promises Harry, kneeling down to be at eye level, knowing just as Hermione does that that’s where the boy’s thoughts have gone. “What Voldemort did all those years ago formed a connection, somehow. It has nothing to do with whether or not you were a good person or not; you have a psychic link. It’s a tangible thing, not something you could have impacted. You saved Arthur’s life tonight.”

Harry nods, but looks unconvinced, worrying at his lip even as Hermione squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“Now that you’re home, we can start all the Christmas festivities early,” Sirius promises. “I’ve already started on both of your gifts, of course, but the house is only partway decorated. Maybe we can watch some of the classics while the Weasleys are staying with us, yeah? Or go ice skating?”

The thought seems to cheer Harry, and as Sirius chatters on about all the things they can do over the next few weeks, the adrenaline slowly recedes from the teenager’s body, until he’s yawning and Hermione’s tugging him to his feet and towards their wing.

Harry stops short before they go down the hallway, turning back towards Sirius, eyes flickering between his godfather and his sister. “Pads?”

“Yes, pup?”

“The thing is—” he hesitates, but continues, eyes squeezed shut. “I told Dumbledore I saw from above, but—I saw from the snake’s eyes. I _was _the snake.” Harry opens his eyes, looking soothed at the lack of disgust on Sirius and Hermione’s face he had anticipated but nervous regardless. “But how could I have been the snake if it’s inside Voldemort’s head that I’m seeing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from pretty venom by all time low
> 
> ty for reading you lovely humans! expect an update around Wednesday (?)   
(I’m putting this here so I feel obligated to get my shit together by then)
> 
> also I finally am caught up on cassie clare books so if anyone wants to DISCUSS I have SO MANY FEELINGS. (on a related note I am getting back into tumblr, drop your handle I want to follow more people)
> 
> much love as always.


	21. a hurricane like me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first and foremost: Black Lives Matter. today and everyday. if you’re not on board with the protests happening, go ahead and unsubscribe, and don’t you dare ever claim to care about these series—Harry Potter is a story of injustice and overcoming a corrupt system and if we won’t do the same we’re not what we claim to be
> 
> so…not Wednesday! Sorry friends—it’s been a weird week on my end.  
As always thank you for your kind words and love for this story.  
Unrelated but I so badly want to write a Hermione time-travel fix it but I don’t know that I could do it justice [and also I worry it will just turn into a DoT knock off] but maybe when this fic ends that will happen (?)  
Which—weird, bc now we only have two and a half(ish) books left so the end is kind of in sight??? (I mean these will probably be more chapters/book for these but still…)  
(I just can’t believe this has become what it has? I’m so grateful to y’all for reading and believing in this story and just hope to do you proud. much love.)

It’s Andy who puts it together, two days later when Harry is less frantic and the Weasleys are at St. Mungo’s visiting their father.

Her lip curls with disgust, and for a moment Harry worries she’s disgusted with him, but then she says, _“it’s one of them_.”

Hermione’s the first to catch on, gasping before gripping Harry’s wrist tightly; when he looks to her questioningly, she says, “a horcrux, Harry. The snake is a horcrux. That’s why you saw through its eyes while seeing as Voldemort. God, the kind of dark magic to make a living creature a vessel…”

Remus taps one finger on the table thoughtfully, expression grim. “As much as I’m glad to have identified another, this confirms he made more than just the diary and the locket. If there’s at least three, we have no idea how many more are out there.”

“There has to be a limit,” Harry wonders aloud, eyes wide. “I mean, you can only split your soul so many times, right?”

“I’m sure there is, pup, but no one would know what it is. As far as I know, no one’s ever made more than one or two and lived to tell the tale before. The way it fractures one’s being, one’s sanity…”

Harry nods. “Yeah, starting to understand why the dude thought a one year old was his mortal enemy.”

Hermione bites her lip, eyes storming with worry. “While of course I’m glad the Order was able to save Arthur in time…this seems dangerous, if Voldemort can make you see what he’s seeing.”

Andy nods in agreement. “Even more than that—a mental link means he could make you see things even when he’s _not_actually seeing them; he could plant anything he imagines in your head.”

“He needs to learn Occlumency,” Sirius says with a grim set to his face.

“Occlumency?” Hermione asks, brow furrowed with the intense worry she displays any time she’s ignorant about something potentially crucial.

Sirius rubs at his jaw. “Merlin, I can’t believe I didn’t think to teach the two of you ages ago…I am so sorry. What an oversight on my part.”

“We all forgot—don’t beat yourself up about it,” Andy chides gently. “It’s a lapse, but perhaps one that was meant to be, for Arthur’s sake.”

“Occlumency is—mental shielding, so to speak,” Sirius explains, expression stoic. “It protects your thoughts and memories from legilimency, which is the opposite—invading another person’s mind, accessing their thoughts and feelings. Think—mental battles, so to speak.”

Harry drags his palms down his face. “Mind reading is real, too? Christ. I quit.”

“How is this not something we’ve been made aware of—with the Order, or at Hogwarts, or anything?” Hermione demands, eyes wide.

Sirius winces, but it’s Remus who speaks up, giving his husband a look like he’ll hex him if he doesn’t stop feeling guilty. “It’s not in the general curriculum because legilimency is incredibly difficult, and thus exceedingly real. Only the most skilled, inherently powerful, and practiced witches and wizards are able to use it, so the average person generally has no need to become adept at Occlumency.”

“One good thing Walburga ever taught me, I suppose,” Sirius mutters, “although more of a Black stipulation than her own foresight. We can start over the break, but you’ll need much more practice when you get back to Hogwarts…perhaps Dumbledore would be willing to teach you.”

“No,” Hermione bites out, arms crossed. “I don’t trust him to dig through Harry’s mind—he’d be intentionally invasive, use it to his means.”

Harry grimaces, then tilts his head thoughtfully. “I agree. I’d rather Dumbledore not…and I don’t want to risk him knowing about our friendship with Draco, because god knows what he’d do with the information.”

Andy snaps, lips curving upward. “That’s it, Draco can teach you. He’s been an excellent Occlumens since he was a child—Cissa didn’t tell him about being in contact with me until she ensure it, to keep from risking exposure. Lucius is a legilimens—not a strong one, mind, he can mostly only detect feelings.”

“I can’t believe he never told me legilimency was a thing,” Hermione scowls, and Harry winces on Draco’s behalf at the glare in her eyes. “What a traitor.”

“That sounds good, though,” Harry says. “I trust Draco, and then there’s no risk of anyone learning any secrets.”

“I’ll write and ask him if he doesn’t mind now,” Hermione promises. “That is, if I don’t decide to murder him for never teaching us before.”

/

Hermione feels antsy as they make their way into St. Mungo’s to visit Arthur; they don’t have to stop and ask for directions, since Remus has been helping Molly get the kids back and forth and just all around take care of them so she can be here with her husband while he heals.

(Which, they’d tried to talk Remus out of coming given that the night before was a full moon and he’s clearly physical and mentally drained, but he’d refused, saying he had received an urgent note from a friend and had business to take care of in the hospital.)

(Nosy as they are they tried to get more than that out of him, of course, but when Remus wants to keep a secret to himself…the man is an unbreachable fortress.)

Molly and the twins are in Arthur’s room when they arrive; and while the Weasley patriarch still looks pale and exhausted his face is alight with a bright smile. The twins are cracking a raunchy joke Hermione only catches the end of, and a mortified Molly pretends to chastise them, but Hermione can see the way she secretly sighs with relieve when the quip makes Arthur laugh.

(And when the laugh doesn’t make him cry out with pain.)

Remus greets the couple before stepping outside, off to deal with whatever his emergency is, and Hermione squeezes Harry’s hand encouragingly, her brother then stepping up to the bed.

“Harry, Hermione! I’m so glad you could make it.” Arthur beams at them, making to sit up before wincing and returning to his reclining position.

Harry frowns, guilt seeping off of him. “Mr. Weasley, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Harry Potter,” Arthur says, his face growing more serious than Hermione can recall it being since the World Cup. “Don’t you dare apologize. You are not responsible for my injury—you saved my life. You are the reason I won’t miss out on all of my children’s graduations and weddings, and—”

(he cuts off, unable to voice his gratitude that his wife won’t be left to raise the children alone, with no income and as a war is brewing—it just, terrifies him to consider.)

He clears his throat. “That is to say, the only one at fault is Voldemort itself. You, Harry, I am—forever grateful to.”

Harry’s cheeks are red, eyes a bit watery, and Hermione can sense the things he’ll never say—that it’s nothing, when the Weasleys were the first adults to show him love, the first to show him what a home could be, the ones who showed up to save him over summers and sent Christmas presents and chocolate Easter eggs before Sirius and Remus were able.

(the first adults in the entirety of his memory to tell him he was worth something—that he deserved any kind of love.)

Sensing his desire for the emotional conversation to be over, Hermione steps forward, leaning against the wall near the head of the bed. “So, Mr. Weasley, what treatment regimen have they started? I’d love to hear more about magical medicine—I could tell you some of the ways it differs from muggle practice?”

And of course that keeps the conversation going for over an hour, Harry and Molly both mostly quiet and content to listen, just thrilled he’s feeling himself enough to get excited about sutures and stitches and cauterization; meanwhile, the twins chime in a surprising amount and offer much more magical anatomical and physiological knowledge than Hermione would’ve expected, which makes the discussion lively.

(The more she thinks about it, though, the more it makes sense; in creating their joke products they’d had to figure out how far to okay without truly harming the intaker, how to halt or restore the damage after the objects had achieved their purpose.)

(which she knew to some extent, because she’d helped them with some of the research involved, but she’d never realized just how thoroughly they had prepared themselves even beyond what she’d seen.)

Eventually, Remus sends a patronus saying they need to head home and asking Harry and Hermione to meet him in the lobby, which strikes them as odd but they acquiesce, hugging all the Weasleys and making their way down.

When they find Remus, though, he has a sleeping child in his arms—primary school age, her hands incredibly pale and barely visible where they peek out of her oversized ratty sweater’s long sleeves.

“What—” Harry begins to ask, but Remus ushers them out the exit before explaining.

“This is Sofia,” he says softly. “She needs a place to stay for a while, so she’ll be coming home with us.”

Harry’s eyebrows pull together, but he nods nonetheless. “O…kay.”

“Is she alright?” Hermione asks.

Remus half frowns. “As much as she can be. They gave her a sleeping draught before they discharged her, and of course we’ll keep an eye on her, but I think being home will help.”

Hermione and Harry are both quiet, but wide eyed, very clearly waiting for him to explain, and Remus sighs. “She was bitten last night.” His eyes are so gentle, so sorrowful as he looks at her—as Harry and Hermione suck in a breath of understanding while he relives his own childhood as a werewolf. “She’s muggle born, and before that she was living in a muggle children’s shelter, who aren’t equipped to care for her now. There’s a wizarding orphanage not far from Hogsmeade, but they’re not willing to take in someone with her-our-condition.”

Harry’s jaw drops, horrified, and Hermione feels her own heart ache for the little girl—just a child, and her entire world has been flipped upside down overnight. Pain is to become her constant companion, suffering and loss her every day.

(a familiar sentiment.)

They floo into the manor’s fireplace, where Sirius looks up from the book in his lap with the beginnings of a smile, only to raise his eyebrows at the sight of the girl in Remus’s arms.

“Kidnapping now, Moony?”

Remus gives him an unamused look, adjusting Sofia’s position in his arms. “You caught me.”

(It’s a testament to the stability and quality of their relationship, Hermione thinks, that Remus clearly didn’t have time to let Sirius know about Sofia, and yet he looks entirely unworried about his husband’s reaction—knows implicitly that they are a team and will stand by each other’s actions and decisions without faltering.)

(Know’s he married such a quality man, he would never refuse to offer everything he has to a child who needs it.)

“We’re fostering her for a bit,” Remus says.

Sirius crosses his arms, one eyebrow cocked. “Just fostering, huh? You expect me to believe you’re not already attached and thinking up ways to talk me into adopting her?”

Remus makes a face, because of course he was doing exactly that, but before he can respond Sofia jerks awake and begins to flail in his arms, starting to whimper and cry as she looks around, terror in her eyes.

He wants to soothe her, but he’s still weak from the previous night’s moon, and her movement makes him stagger as he pales—

And then Sirius is there, scooping her into his arms as if he’s done it a million times before, pulling her to his chest and gently rubbing circles on her back. “You’re okay, little love. I know it’s scary being somewhere unfamiliar—I was a stray once, too.” He whispers the last sentence, so softly only she can hear. “You’re okay. You’re safe here, cub.”

Sofia meets his eyes carefully—her own guarded and judging, in a familiar way that breaks Hermione’s heart.

(she knows the kind of pain that makes one’s eyes look that way.)

Whatever she finds in Sirius’s face, the girl seems to trust, because she stops flailing; sniffles, burrowing into Sirius’s t-shirt and breathing more slowly as he continues to speak softly to her.

Remus sighs from where he sits on the couch with a cup of tea he’d summoned from the kitchen. “He was the same way with you,” he tells Harry wistfully, lost in memory. “Even when you were screaming with those lungs your mother gave you, he’d just—hold you, talk to you in that way of his that could wrap the devil himself around his finger, and you’d be calm in a moment. Drove James spare, how easy it was for Sirius to soothe you; he’d taken so much time to figure out exact routines, and songs, and even shifting into his animagus form—it was an art, and he was proud to figure it out, and then Sirius just walked in and did it without batting an eye.”

“Not—not my mum? It didn’t annoy her, I mean?” Harry asks, curious.

“Oh, not at all,” Remus smiles. “Everyone always assumed James was the troublemaker, and Lily the stick in the mud, which of course she could be, but…Lily was passionate, and fun, and didn’t sweat the small stuff. Made bets with Sirius about when you’d take your first steps and took an indecent number of his galleons when she won—James was aghast.”

“He sounds so much like you,” Hermione smiles, elbowing him gently and feeling her heart swell at the way he sweetly flushes with pride.

/

The rest of the break feels like it flies by—she and Harry have been trying to spend time with Sofia, who is understandably traumatized and skittish but so clearly full of life.

She warms up to them all slowly—Remus first, because she’s terrified by her newly enhanced senses and he’s the only one that understands, not to mention she can smell that he’s like her, so she instinctively feels safe with him.

(Knows the alpha protects the pack.)

And of course she’d taken an immediate liking to Sirius, one broken thing to another; he’s taken to spending lots of time in his animagus form, which she adores and seems to calm her down whenever she starts getting anxious.

She and Harry both try to reach out without pressuring her, and Sofia takes to it, seemingly enjoying sitting near them whenever they’re quietly reading or watching a movie, though she bolts any time they try to pull her into conversation.

(But Hermione’s seen the way the little girl nervously smiles when her two newfound older siblings fondly call her _Sof_and offer blankets and candy they ask Winky to sneak in knowing Remus would chide them for it.)

The girl spends most of her time in corners; they’d all worried the Weasley’s relentless energy might overwhelm her, but from what Hermione can see she seems content to bask in the lively noise, despite never partaking.

(Hermione thinks the chaos must remind her of the orphanage she used to call home—one familiar thing in her life that’s turned upside down.)

As chaotic as things are, it’s still the holiday, and everyone in the Manor takes the celebrations to the highest possible degree.

Hermione has—a lot of feelings on the matter.

She’s never been one for holidays—mostly they’ve been upsetting, her family pretending to care about her even as they stood by while she was dying inside. Holidays for her have always been frustration, and pain.

But this time she’s not there—she’s with Harry and Sirius and Remus and Tonks and Ginny, and the occasion makes her squirm but they’re all so _happy _and the laughter is contagious.

(And Harry and Sirius have been there too—spent their lives hating the holidays until they’d gotten to Hogwarts—so when she pulls away, or reads instead of watching a Christmas movie, they get it; don’t pester her, just love on her and wait for her to come back to them.)

It’s almost New Year’s, then, and something feels—different.

(Hopeful.)

(It's naïve to feel so optimistic with the state of the world being what it currently is, but she can’t help but hope the coming year will be better, somehow.)

(Isn’t it already?)

Hermione plops onto the couch, staring at the ceiling while Harry sits opposite her with a bowl of popcorn watching some supernatural American show she’s never heard of.

“Are you ever just baffled by non-traumatized people’s ability to just…not process the circumstances around them?” she asks, lips pursed thoughtfully. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. Like, I’m happy for them that they’ve never been through the kinds of prolonged trauma that make us good at picking up on body language and microscopic changes in mood and the way things we say and do impact people around us. But like…how?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Ron?”

“Naturally.” She rotates, legging-clad legs over the back of the couch so she’s upside down. “I know he doesn’t mean any harm, he’s just genuinely ignorant of the feelings of the people around him, but like—that’s what amazes me about it. That he literally can’t see what we can.”

“It’s like a superpower,” he grins. “Just with a fucked up childhood instead of a spider bite or a vat of toxic waste.”

Tonks walks in, a confused expression on her face. “Do I even want to know?”

Behind her, Ginny says, “No. With that lot less is always better.” She snickers at the offense on Hermione and Harry’s faces. “You know I’m right. When you’re together being all mopey and weird anything that comes out of your mouths is guaranteed to be disturbing.”

“The superpower strikes again,” Harry razzes, holding out a hand for Hermione to high five while they both crack up.

/

There’s only one Order meeting during all of the break; Remus stays home with Sof, but the rest of them make their way to Grimmauld Place, Hermione nervous for reasons Harry doesn't know.

(The most recent intel Draco’s relayed, of Voldemort’s Christmas activities.)

(Professor McGonagall had assured her they’d discuss it at the meeting, that they would all protect Harry.)

(But she can’t help but worry it won’t be enough

“Harry, Hermione!”

She looks up to see Cedric rising from his seat as they enter the kitchen, grinning as he moves to throw his arms around each of them. “It’s so good to see you both.”

“Cedric!” Harry beams, looking more happy than she’s seen him in weeks and weeks. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve joined the Order, of course! Mind you, I’ve been trying to since I graduated, but it’s difficult to offer your services to a clandestine organization when you don’t know who to approach, and then the process of being vetted takes a bit.”

“But ‘e is ‘ere now,” Fleur says, squeezing Hermione’s hand in greeting. The blonde had been over with Bill frequently, so she and Hermione have been spending many hours together. “We nearly ‘ave—what is it ze Americans say, ‘ze band back together’?”

“Sounds right to me,” Cedric shrugs. “I’m so glad to see you all. I was kind of dreading it, since I can’t tell Theo much, his family being on the side they are—it would put him in danger. But it’s nice to see some familiar faces.”

Hermione smiles, nodding in agreement, but her heart’s not in it—she wishes she and Cedric could speak honestly, of the difficulties of being with someone who’s supposed to be on the other side of the war that’s brewing.

(He _understands_—and he doesn’t know it.)

They settle into the meeting, different operatives reporting updates if they have them, Moody being grouchy and assigning a few new tasks. “Any word from your…informant, Minerva?”

Hermione has to keep herself from tensing at the mention of Draco.

“Yes—while still seeking the weapon we’ve previously discussed, it has become clear that Voldemort intends to continue to target Mister Potter. And he hopes to use the weapon to do so.”

The rest of the room pales—cries of outrage, nervous whispers, all turning to Harry with looks of pity.

But the boy in question just sips at his butterbeer and shrugs. “What else is new?” He makes a face at Hermione until she stops frowning.

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows. “Harry, I don’t think you’re considering the severity of this—”

“No, I get it,” Harry insists. “But no offense, you guys don’t get it. I’ve spent the last—what, five years? With a mass murderer after me. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up with your life in jeopardy _literally _constantly. I spend all of my time with someone trying to kill me—at this point I’m just desensitized to it.”

“Thanks for that lovely reminder, pup,” Sirius says dryly, but Harry just sticks his tongue out in response.

Fred clears his throat. “Hey Harry, want to take bets on how long till the first attempt on your life?”

_“Frederick—”_

“Five sickles says before Valentine’s day,” Harry says, grinning at the outrage on everyone’s faces while Hermione face palms beside him.

“Here we go again,” Cedric mutters to Fleur.

/

/

“You never mentioned how your career advising meeting with McGonagall went,” Draco comments a week later, curled up on their couch in the RoR; he says it casually, but Hermione can hear his wonder at what she wants to do behind the words.

“It was good. I’m doing well in all my courses, so I told her I intend to keep all of them for NEWTs except Care of Magical Creatures. I told her I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do and wanted to keep my options open, which she said sounded fine.”

Her boyfriend tilts his head giving her a look. “You must have a few ideas.”

She purses her lips, but relents. “I do. I—at the time I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to consider it yet, but after Christmas and just thinking about myself and what matters to me but also what will be good for me…I think I’d like to be a healer.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Really?” He pauses, thinking about it for a moment before a soft smile creeps onto his face. “Yeah, that makes sense. What made you decide?”

“I know I want to do something that helps people. I thought about mind healing, or work in the ministry—and I still think I might do some stuff with legal matters, but—I can barely hold myself together, I don’t have the emotional resources to do it for others. But…physically helping them, _being_ there when they’re having their worst moments, when they might not have anyone else…that I can do.”

Draco presses a fond kiss to the top of her head. “I can see it already. They’ll be lucky to have you, love. And I think it’ll be good for you—being able to have that kind of impact. Not to mention how useful it’ll be with Potter’s tendency to be injured.” They’re both quiet for a moment, but then he groans when the realization hits him. “Oh, god—you and Pansy in medical school together. I’ll never be rid of her, will I?”

“Nope,” Hermione says, grinning devilishly. “Just think of all the days she’ll come home with me for wine night after work.”

“Merlin, help me.”

/

“Please, ‘Mione,” Ron wheedles, an earnest smile on his face.

Hermione is unmoved; disillusioned beside her, Draco traces a finer along her spine, likely still grouchy that Ron had shown up early and cut into his and Hermione’s time together before the meeting. “Nope. I’m reading—this is my only downtime all day, I need it to be useful.”

As much as she loves ASA, it eats up at her time, and on top over her overloaded course schedule and tutoring and clandestine meetups with Draco that have lately included nothing but sleeping because she’s so very pressed for time she can’t keep her eyes open long enough to hear about his day—

(She’s not sacrificing this one hour to get done what she needs to because Ron wants a chess partner.)

Ron opens his mouth to continue pleading, but stops short, and Hermione looks up with wide eyes to see Draco having disillusioned himself.

“I’ll play you.”

“Draco, what are you—”

Ron’s jaw had already dropped, his nostrils flaring when she addresses his alleged enemy familiarly.

“He might as well know. We’ll have him in the Fidelius same as the rest—he’s one of your best friends, baby, he’s bound to find out eventually.”

Hermione bites her lip nervously, watching Ron’s left eye twitch when Draco uses the endearment.

“What in the _bloody hell_—”

“Ron,” she says, voice gentle but firm. “Draco is—”

(_my heart, my soul, the only thing that keeps me going some days, the love of my life, the best shag in the world—)_

“My soul mate,” she settles on, blushing when he slides his fingers through her own. “Everything you think you know about him is false—an act, because otherwise his father…”

“Would do every awful thing you’ve ever sarcastically thought him capable of,” Draco finishes for her, a grim smile on his face.”

Ron shakes his head, eyes narrowed with confusion. “You’re—together? But you constantly bully her and treat her like shit! More than anyone else.”

Hermione nods. “Yes, because I know it’s a farce, so he can keep up the façade without doing any actual harm.”

“But he’s been awful to Harry too—those badges he made last year!” Ron gesticulates all around him face red with frustration. After a beat of both Hermione and Draco being quiet, Ron’s flush grows even darker. “Harry’s in on this _too_?”

“He is,” Hermione admits, “though he hasn’t always been. He—when everything happened with Sirius, and the time-turner, he found out.”

“And for the record, he _loved _the badges,” Draco inserts, looking pleased with himself. “Anything we did to deter people from rooting for him, really, but that especially. Kept owling me for more to get Fred and George to hand out. Speaking of which, they know as well, and Ginny, which is why I sometimes make comments about your family—like with Hermione, they’re okay with it, so it’s an easy way to maintain my reputation without…well. I’ve never meant any harm, but since you haven’t been in on it I know it’s been harmful regardless of my intentions, so—I’m sorry. I—I know it doesn’t make up for all that it’s seemed on your end, but for what it’s worth, I consider all three of them friends—and Fleur, of course—and as such have great respect for your family.”

Ron blinks, tugs at his hair, looking mind blown. “The fuck. Wow. Okay. Bloody hell. I…” he looks to Hermione, “How can you—how do you know he’s not lying? How can you trust him?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “How could I not? He’s—I’ve known him longer than any of you. He knows me better than anyone—save Harry, maybe.”

“I resent that,” Draco says, crossing his arms. “I’d beat him at Mia trivia any day.” When she gives him a look, he grins devilishly. “Not to mention he doesn’t know anything about how to get you off—”

“_Draco!_” Hermione hisses, red faced, shoving at his shoulder. “Just for that, you and your hand can enjoy each other for the next week.”

Her boyfriend snorts. “Yeah, right. You can’t last that long—especially not right after the break. You’ll give in within a day.”

Hermione flicks Draco off, but lets him pull her close to press a kiss behind her ear, one hand reaching to gently grasp her knee in a comfortable sort of way, resting there as he turns back to Ron.

Ron’s eyes follow back and forth between them, his expression a mix of shock and slight disgust—though not what she’d expected, more taken aback by the thought of Hermione having a sex life, despite his witnessing countless love bites that have graced her neck over the last year or two.

Hermione clears her throat. “I—I really am sorry we’ve kept it from you, Ron. It’s just—well, the fewer people who know the better. But I’m glad to not have to hide it from you anymore.” She worries at the hem of her sweater, half-dreading his reaction. “How mad are you? On a scale from dirt on your nose to Crooks allegedly eating Scabbers?”

Ron doesn’t even laugh at the joke, face largely blank as he reels at the massive influx of information. “I—honestly I have no feelings at the moment, I’m just re-evaluating everything I thought I knew about the world.” He rubs at his eyes. “I suppose it almost makes sense—you’re Blaise’s best friend, and Ginny thinks well enough of the prat that he must have good judgement. Fleur, too. Blimey.”

“Which—Fleur doesn’t know about us being soul mates, Ron,” Hermione hurries to clarify. “No one does except Harry, Gin, Blaise, the twins, Pansy, and Luna. And Harry’s family—Sirius and Remus and the Tonks lot.” She scrunches her nose. “God, when I list them all out it seems like so many.”

“Remember when it was just us, love?” Draco says, soft smile and molten eyes just for her. “Way back when?”

Hermione hums, her own smile forming. “Though we didn’t know we were Romeo and Juliet then. I loved that, but…I love us now.”

“I’ll love it even more when I can shout it to the whole world, and hex any tosser that looks at you sideways,” he says, the words a promise.

“Merlin, I—this has to stop,” Ron begs, holding his hands up. “I can handle—being friends with the prat, and knowing the two of you are together, but if you keep flirting I’ll vomit all over the training mats.”

Draco smirks like he’s considering kissing her to evoke precisely that response, but at Hermione’s shoulder bump he sighs and relents. “Right, then. Chess?”

The door opens a twenty minutes later, but before they can panic Luna’s airy voice calls, “just me!” and they relax as she and Pansy make their way into the room.

Neither looks very surprised at the sight of Ron and Draco engrossed in the chess game; they chatter to Hermione, begin stretching as they like to do before ASA meetings, until Draco barks out, _“Motherfucker!”_

The rest of the room raises their eyebrows, but Ron grins. “Good game, mate. Or should I say _checkmate_.”

“How are you so good at this?” Draco demands.

A shrug from Ron. “Just strategy. I’ve always liked puzzles of how things fit together; ‘Mione has her logic puzzles, and I have my tactics practice.”

Draco looks impressed, reaches out a hand to shake.

(_Somehow_, Hermione thinks, _this is going to be okay.)_

(This is going to _work_.)

“This is why no one wants to play you, Ronald,” Hermione teases before turning the page in her book. “You crush their egos.”

“_I’ll_ play you,” Pansy smirks, sliding into the spot Draco had vacated. “There’s thirty more minutes till the meeting anyway, good way to pass the time. Haven’t played a game in a while.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione sees Draco’s lips twitch, like there’s something the witch isn’t saying, but he makes no move to share so she shrugs it off.

She returns her attention to her book, Draco and Luna both working on essays on either side of her. The time passes, and eventually Draco re-disillusions himself as ASA members begin trailing inside the RoR, the many conversations gradually heightening the room’s volume.

Harry moves to Luna’s side when he comes in, turning pink when she kisses him soundly before returning her attention to the parchment before her, though keeping his hand in hers.

(The match goes on.)

As the group trickles in, they all crowd around where Ron and Pansy hold court, each giving as good as they get—half the time no moves being made, as they both mentally contemplate their next step before realizing exactly how the other person would counter it, just glaring and smirking at each other wordlessly.

Eventually, when it’s two minutes past start time and most everyone is there, Hermione steps forward, reluctantly clearing her throat. “Sorry, you two, but we really have to get started.”

“Oh!” Pansy blinks. “I didn’t even realize how much time had passed. Sorry, Hermione.” She moves a piece offhandedly, before smirking. “Checkmate. Good game, Weasley.”

(The other Weasleys and Harry go silent.)

Ron gapes at Pansy as she gets to her feet, winking at him as she glides away to chatter with Ginny and Luna.

Harry is likewise stunned, while Hermione has to hold back a giggle.

“She—she beat me,” Ron says, eyes still wide. “Hermione, she—she beat me.”

(Ron has _never_ lost at chess before—not once, barring the giant chess set first year, and even that had been a strategic move more than actually being beaten.)

“She did,” Hermione agrees, watching Fred and George guffaw behind him.

Ron sighs, gaze trailing after the Slytherin in question as he rests his cheek against a propped up fist. “I think I’m in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from gasoline by halsey  
to be clear Ron and Pansy will not be getting together, I have other plans for their soulmates  
I really had no intent of making an OC bc I usually hate them, like I was just like “hm fostering bby werewolves seems like something wolfstar would do” and then I was writing and thought “there’s no way these fuckers wouldn’t get way way attached they are incapable of not being family to anyone who needs one” so there’s that? Idk what more will happen there  
New chapter within the week! (I promise, this time—I have the next three super explicitly mapped out so they’ll be no time at all)  
take care of yourselves out there.


	22. tired, lifeless eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TW****  
some dark SA related scenes in this one:
> 
> -at the end of the legilimency scene (italicized and in one chunk in parentheses)  
-as well as ESPECIALLY in the last scene (where Harry and Draco find Mia drinking alone in the RoR) 
> 
> if you’re sensitive to SA you can def skip it (plot wise you’ll know from context so no worries there), and I promise this is as dark as those themes will get in the story—from here our girl will be working her way to healing

As soon as the morning post arrives, the Great Hall is abuzz—and the whispers only grow louder as the day goes on, people across the school devolving into hysterics.

By the time the ASA meeting starts, Harry looks ready to fight a basilisk again if it would stop the insanity; attendance is the best it’s ever been, though Neville is noticeably absent, and the number of people plus the intensity of their panic makes for an overwhelming amount of chaos. “Okay, can we—before we start, let’s just take like ten minutes to talk about this and see if we can calm down a bit.”

Ernie Mcmillan snorts. “No offense, mate, you’re a good teacher and all, but I think there’s very little you could say that would be helpful right now.”

“He has a point, Harry,” Ginny says with a scowl, as though she resents agreeing with the prat. “It’s hard to feel safe anywhere with Bellatrix Lestrange on the loose. That woman is…I had nightmares of her for years when I overheard my parents talking about some of her crimes as a kid.”

“Not to mention she’s _batshit insane_ so nothing will stop her,” Cho Chang adds. “Normal people—even bad people—they stop if there are witnesses, or if there are repercussions, that kind of thing. But Bellatrix has genuinely no regard for her own life or safety, so nothing stops her. The kind of damage she’s capable of…”

Harry tugs at his hair. “I admit the situation is—shit. But that just means what we do here is even more important.”

“Harry’s right,” Hermione says with a sigh, getting to her feet. “Maybe what we do here won’t make a difference if we’re up against her. But maybe it will. And even if the odds we’re able to fight her off are slim, I’d rather slim odds than none.” She tilts her head, cracking her neck before continuing. “Not to mention, this is—big. You all know about the dementors attacking Harry over the summer; the Ministry tried to brush it under the rug, and claim it was nothing. But this is proof that something bigger is happening—proof that the dementors, at least some of them, have aligned with Voldemort.”

“Fudge still won’t acknowledge it,” Dean mutters. “He’ll claim a fluke, or an outside accessory—hell, if Sirius hadn’t been cleared, probably would’ve blamed him.”

“And a lot of people will believe him,” Hermione acknowledges. “That’s how history goes. But not everyone will—_some_ people will see and understand, will begin taking it seriously. This is—the start of something bigger than just us.”

Dean motions in question, as if asking if it’s okay for him to speak to the room, getting to his feet when Hermione nods. “One more thing. If _you’re_ scared because the mass murdering lunatic who helped to lead the Death Eaters is on the loose—imagine how those of us who are muggle born feel. If we lose this fight, your lives look different—but ours end.”

“Well-put, Dean,” Hermione says, squeezing his hand in solidarity.

The rest of the meeting is charged with the same fervor—the same heightened tension and immediate sense of urgency at mastering the spells they’ve been working on.

(The prison break—this makes it real, that war is coming.)

(That if they’re not ready they’ll pay the price in their own blood.)

She and Harry are putting the room back to rights, occasionally commenting on who’s doing well and what pairings they might switch up, who might benefit from an extra one-on-one session, when a luminescent wolf pads into the room, the Patronus approaching them with Remus’s voice. _“Please come to my office.”_

Not the first time they’ve received such a summons—usually because Sirius has sent chocolates for them all, or Remus wants to check in to see that they’re doing alright.

But the climate being what it currently is, Remus’s tone having the worried edge that it does, they’re both a little nervous when they head to the his personal quarters.

When they enter, both Remus and Sirius are reclining on the armchair, deep in discussion; Sofia is there, too, playing with muggle toy cars on the rug.

“Uncle Pads!” Harry’s face lights up as he moves to hug his godfather, even though it’s only been a couple weeks since they’ve seen him. Hermione hugs him as well, and then they both gently smile at Sofia. “Hi, Sof,” Harry says, and Hermione holds out a licorice wand she’d had in her bag.

The younger girl eyes them both for a beat before hesitantly jerking forward to accept the candy and throw an arm around each of them for a brief but tight hug, before jumping away and returning her attention to her toys.

(“Progress,” Hermione whispers to Harry, who grins in return.)

“What’s going on?”

Sirius’s expression grows dark. “Have you heard—”

His husband huffs, cutting him off. “Are you kidding? You were a student here at the beginnings of a war—you remember how quickly news travels. The entire school’s been talking about nothing else all day, it was near impossible to get anyone to do their work.”

“Right,” Sirius makes a face. “Well, the thing is—Bellatrix is my cousin.”

“Makes sense,” Harry tilts his head, considering. “All members of the Black family seem to be pretty nuts.”

His godfather rolls his eyes, ignoring the comment and pressing onward. “Bellatrix has always been—shall we say, unstable? Even more so than the average _tojours pur_ proponent—no more Black family insults or James’s mother will rise from the dead just to hex you silly.” He gives Harry a look. “Bella particularly hates me, has always resented that a member of her own allegedly glorious dynasty could become such a filthy blood traitor. So she’s always been especially invested in my death—went after the friends that became my family as well.” He swallows heavily, looking like he has more to say but is too scared to say it.

Harry stifles a yawn. “Are you just trying to tell us she wants to kill us too? Because you really could’ve written that in a letter, you didn’t need to make a special trip. Same old, same old. Maybe she’ll get creative and make it all a bit more interesting—if I’m gonna get taken out, might as well be in a big way, right?”

Sirius leans forward, staring at him. “Merlin, I need to get you in therapy.”

Hermione lets out a laugh despite herself—despite the fear she still feels whenever Harry’s well-being is at stake.

Her brother points a finger at her. “What do you think you’re laughing at—you’re fucked up in the head too!”

“I mean, obviously,” she rolls her eyes. A knock at the door makes her jump.

“Er, sorry,” Neville says timidly; he’s in a sweater and sweatpants, looking worse for the wear than Hermione’s ever seen him, and it’s then she realizes that she hadn’t seen him all day. “You wanted to see me, Professor Lupin?”

“Oh, wow, you were so right Moony,” Sirius says in a hushed voice, staring at Neville. “He looks so much like Alice.”

Neville’s spine straightens. “You—you knew my mother?”

“Did we ever,” Remus says, a sad smile on his face, giving Neville a soft look. “How are you doing, Neville?”

“Probably as well as you’d expect,” the boy in question mumbles, crossing his arms like they’ll keep out the world.

Hermione looks to Harry, but he’s clearly equally as confused.

Sirius spots them and grimaces. “We can—”

“No, it’s okay,” Neville says, sighing before taking a seat by them on the couch. “My parents were tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr—cruciatus curse. Till—till their minds were shattered.” He swallows heavily, eyes full of sorrow and rage and a million other complicated emotions. “They’re in St. Mungo’s, now—have been my entire life since.”

Harry gapes. “Oh, god—that’s horrible. I’m so sorry. And now she’s…jesus. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

Neville nods appreciatively, but the clench of his jaw is bitter. “Thanks. I mean, it sucks, but after an entire year of being taught by Crouch, including the part where he _literally_ made me watch him use the cruciatus curse?” A dry laugh escapes him, but it’s more sad than angry. “It’s hard to even be surprised.”

“Once again, fuck Albus Dumbledore,” Hermione mutters, voice scathing. Then, louder, “That’s shitty, Nev. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Neville,” Remus says. “The reason I asked you to come, other than wanting to check in on you, is that we thought—I mean, we’d always intended, but it had never happened and then—so we—that is—”

“Breathe, Moony,” Sirius reminds him, before facing Neville himself. “We’d like to give you some of our memories of your parents. We’ve meant to for ages, but with this heathen constantly having threats against his life I’m afraid it’s fallen to the wayside, and then every time we go to visit them we say we will but then the chaos happens and…anyway, given the circumstances…well, we thought you could use some cheering up. And we’re thinking of them more than ever.”

Neville’s eyes are watery. “You—you visit them?”

“Once a month or so,” Remus says. “Like I said, we were—good friends.” He shakes his head, as if forcing himself out of the memories. “We’ve already gone ahead and put the memories all into vials for you—with labels, in case you have any preference.”

“Lots of Hogwarts in there—before Lily and Prongs got together, Lily would get pissed off at our antics, and Ali would prank us to make her feel better.” Sirius smiles fondly at the thought. “Some of them in action as well, seeing as we were all Aurors together—Frank and I paired up a lot for training, because Alice insisted he would go easy on her and she wanted him to properly train, and then once we were instated he and I grabbed a pint after our shifts pretty regularly.”

“Not a ton of your mum’s pregnancy, or after you were born,” Remus says with a frown. “We only rarely saw them, what with the safety precautions in place, since back then we didn’t know whether Voldemort would go after you or Harry. But there are some—including the day you were born.”

Sirius moves out of the office, returning with an over the shoulder bag he hands over to Neville. “They’re all in here—undetectable extension charm. And a pensieve, so that you can look at them all whenever you’d like. Our very, very belated gift to you.”

“Thank you,” Neville whispers, voice deep and overcome with emotion. “I—my gran doesn’t like to talk about them much. I mean, she mentions them being brave and strong and whatever else, but—the memories make her too sad.”

“It’s different, for her,” Sirius nods, eyes on Harry. “To see your child hurt, to lose so much of them…well, I’m honestly impressed she’s held up as well as she has. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but quietly goes to hug him around the waist; Sirius smiles faintly, hands stroking his hair. “Thank you, pup.”

Sofia claims the spot where Harry’d been seated next to Hermione. She holds out one of her toy cars as if in offering, smiling when the older girl takes it in hand, before laying her head on Hermione’s lap and promptly falling asleep.

(And it’s—the world is going to shit. Things are falling apart all around them.)

And Neville—such quiet strength, so perpetually loyal and brave and unflinchingly committed to his morals no one realizes how strong he is. How much he’s been through. How resilient he is even as he continues to struggle right in front of their eyes.

(They’re more alike than even she had realized.)

/

“Fuck,” Harry bites out, panting as he slumps forward. “And I thought learning the patronus charm was bad.”

“Sorry, mate,” Draco grimaces. “I’d be more gentle but you really need to learn as fast as possible.”

“I know, I know.” Harry groans before throwing himself on the couch. “Let me rest for a minute, it can be Mia’s turn now.”

“Ass,” she mutters, but acquiesces, getting to her feet and solidifying herself.

“Don’t know why you’re complaining—you’re already fantastic,” her brother grumbles.

(And of course she is—she has a lifetime of practice of putting up walls in her mind, of disassociating from herself so strongly and pushing aside memories with such force they’re hidden from even herself.)

(it’s—she especially _hates_ legilimency, the invasion of her mind—the one place that’s been safe all these years.)

(she’ll do anything to be impervious to it.)

Draco raises his wand, and she braces herself; she can feel the attempt at invasion—like a scraping sensation on the bricks she’s used to build the walls of her mind.

He’s an excellent legilimens, so sometimes a claw will poke in, catch a wisp of a thought, but she quickly stamps them out or cuts them off.

After twenty minutes ago, he stops, when they’re both sweating from the effort they’ve been putting forth.

“Good job, love,” he praises her, a proud smile on his face. “I would call that highly proficient.”

Satisfaction seeps through her—the familiar relief of knowing she’s capable, of knowing this incompetence won’t be the reason she’s ejected from the wizarding world.

The tension leaves her body, and she’s moving back to her spot on the couch when she feels it—a sudden mental attack, the same claws diving inside her mind.

She sucks in a break, every muscle in her body going taut. “What the hell, Draco?”

“It’s your last lesson,” Draco says, voice apologetic. “Always be on guard—never let your mental shields down. Constant vigilance, as I’m told Mad-Eye would say.”

Hermione hisses. “That’s all well and good, you’ve made your point, now get out of my head!”

He looks taken aback at the anger in her voice, the pallor of her skin—

(the white of her knuckles, in clenched fists.)

“Okay, I am, but you have to calm down, baby, or I’ll be trapped in your head.”

She swallows heavily, trying to keep from freaking out, and she’s let up the walls enough for him to start to recede. She’s so relieved he hasn’t stumbled across anything she doesn’t want him to see—

And of course, because she’s thinking about it, it comes to the forefront of her mind.

(_he’s finally getting off of her, but her mind is far away—she’d learned long ago how to tune it out. Her gaze moves to the sketch on her nightstand, a drawing of Hogwarts by Draco’s hand that Dobby had brought a week ago. Thinking about her soul mate makes it easy to ignore the aches in her body, the bruises already forming and the mess she’ll have to clean up, the sound of the belt buckle as her uncle gets dressed. He’s saying something she doesn’t listen to, his patented smile on his face, of course. He reaches down to give a parting pinch before leaving—and then she’s alone, inside the wreckage of herself, curling up and pulling the blankets tight as if the pressure of them can suffocate the wrongness of her own skin—)_

She’s finally able to shut it down—shoves Draco out of her mind, throws up the strongest walls she’s ever forged.

When she looks up, Draco’s staring at her in horror; her own face is expressionless, because as horrible as the memory is she’s beyond desensitized to her own violation.

Draco tries to speak, but it comes out as a croak, and then he’s reaching for a garbage can and retching.

Harry sits up, eyes worried. “What did he see?”

Hermione sighs as she moves to tie her hair in a messy bun. “Probably exactly what you’d guess would make him look like that.” She retreats to her spot on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest and worrying at her bottom lip. “Although it was the tail end, not even any of the midst of it, so I don’t know why he’s—”

“Hermione!” Harry chides, looking unsurprised but still like he wants to yell at her for saying so. “Most people would be.”

“I—” Draco rasps, “The picture. I drew that this summer. This—”

She blows out a heavy breath, turning to Harry. “Could you—give us a bit?”

“Of course.” He gives her a grim smile. “I love you, Mia.”

Hermione nods back, because of course she loves him too.

(He’s the first family she’s ever had—the one person she knows is unequivocally and unquestionably in her corner.)

They’re quiet, for a moment.

Draco is still pale—shaking, she’s not sure whether with disgust or horror or anger.

“That happened this summer,” his says, voice cutting through the air like steel.

“Yes,” she confirms, swallowing heavily. And however much Harry’s reassured her, however much she _knows _Draco loves her more than anything and would never do anything but support her and rage on her behalf, she stutters, “I didn’t—I didn’t want to cheat. I’m sorry that I—I would never if I had any say, I swear.”

Draco gapes at her, face contorting in the most appalled way.

(She’ll never know the way it makes his blood run cold.)

“Merlin, baby, I—” he presses his hand to his mouth for a beat before continuing. “Of _course_ you wouldn’t. Mia, someone—someone _hurt_ you, I would never try to make this into me being wronged.”

(And she sniffles, because as much as she knew that, it’s—the verbal confirmation helps.)

He moves to sit on the couch, not right next to her but near—she doesn’t even notice how instinctively she moves away from physical contact, how quickly her back is pressed up against the arm of the couch so she can see the whole room.

(Moments like these, when it all feels fresh…as much as she loves Draco, the thought of his skin on her makes her cringe.)

“So.” Draco clears his throat, hands clasped together and gripping tight to keep him from breaking things. “Can we—talk about this? It doesn’t—obviously not more than what you’re comfortable with, but…” he trails off, and Hermione watches his eyes begin to water. “Mia, all this time? I mean…I figured you’d been—hurt, like that—before, after we slept together for the first time, but…I’ve always assumed it’s been over.” He braces his arms on his knees. “But it’s been happening this whole time?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is quite possibly the most quiet it’s ever been. “My uncle. Ever since I can remember.”

His eyebrows pull together. “You mean since before—”

“I mean _literally for as far back as I can remember_.” She winces when she sees his fists clench so tightly it breaks the skin—_this_ is why she bears it alone. “And before you ask, yes, my parents are relatively aware, and no, they’ve never given a single fuck.”

Draco sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “Wow. Okay. That’s…they’re literal garbage. Fuck them. And him…” he wipes at the beginnings of tears starting to sidle onto his cheeks, eyes icy with rage. “I want to kill him. I really and truly wish he were dead.”

“Me too,” Hermione whispers—it’s a thought she’s had a million times over the years.

(One she’s always felt guilty about, but…_god_, does she want him gone.)

_(Is it so wrong to want a monster slain?) _

And—she loves him even more, for being so angry on her behalf; for caring enough that he’d fight the sun itself if it would help.

“For what it’s worth, I never have to see any of them again. Sirius obliviated them, sent them away.”

“He knows? And Harry, right?”

She nods. “Yes, and Tonks, and Remus. Pansy, too.” Draco looks surprised at the mention of Pansy, but she shakes her head for him to leave it alone.

They’re quiet for a few minutes; Hermione can practically hear his mind moving a million miles an hour.

“Can I—what do I—” he pauses, trying so hard to find the right words—if there ever were such a thing. “How can I—help? What do you need?”

Her heart rate has begun to slow, the spike of anxiety calming to a functional level, so she crawls across the couch to where he sits. As soon as she reaches her arms around his middle, he’s holding her, lips pressed to her hair while she nuzzles into his chest.

She pokes him so he tightens his grip, because she only ever feels okay when she’s being held so tightly she knows it’s real—knows it’s not just a dream.

(When his limbs are around her and she can breathe for the briefest of moments because she knows it’s the safest place in the world.)

“Just keep loving me,” she pleads softly, humming contentedly when he pulls a soft blanket over them both before returning to gently rubbing her back.

“Always,” he promises.

(and if he can know this darkest part of her and somehow love her still, she believes him.)

/

She’s been so busy with ASA and Draco and the Order that she hadn’t yet thought about what being on the other side of the year’s midpoint means—until it’s February, and the realization that OWLs approach hits her like a ton of bricks.

(Even though she’s not sober—but she’s perfecting the art of acting it, has been more careful, used more moderation, so no one around her suspects a thing.)

(Some days she thinks she’s healing.)

(Others she’s spiraling into a darker place than ever.)

They’re in the library; Draco and Blaise have an Inquisitorial Squad patrol, so she’s writing back and forth with him but physically with Harry, Luna, Ginny, and the twins, all of whom are much too calm for her liking.

Ginny sighs, clearly over it but willing to placate her. “Hermione, they’re really just rehashing all the material you’ve been doing all year, and you’ve aced all of that—you have no reason to worry, even _without _studying.”

“Says you—you have another year before you have to take them! Oh, hi Neville.” Hermione beams as he approaches—between classes, meals, ASA, and Prefect duties she’s been spending more time with him than anyone, lately.

“Hi, Hermione—everyone,” he waves with a smile. “All right if I join you? I’m just working on an project for Professor Sprout.”

“Of course,” Ginny says, everyone else nodding in agreement. “We were just discussing how Hermione’s being ridiculous and has no reason to be so worried about OWLs when she’s acing every class.”

“Not to mention,” Luna adds, “that testing doesn’t matter. I mean of course you want to pass, in order to graduate and maintain the subjects you need for your career, but like…it’s a shitty institution that doesn’t mean anything and doesn’t take into account many more important factors.”

Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Lu, you’re a Ravenclaw, aren’t you supposed to be all about school?”

His girlfriend rolls her eyes fondly. “I’d blame the nargles, but you’re this clueless all on your own, aren’t you?” He shrugs in response with an innocent looking grin, and she sighs, putting down her quill to explain. “First of all, Ravenclaw is all about _learning, _not school—big difference. Schools are—in _theory_, intended to foster learning and serve as an equalizer amongst society, but in reality often work to create citizens who are productive and obedient members of society.”

When he still looks confused, she pushes her hair behind her ears before pointing to Fred and George. “Would you say Fred and George are smart?”

“Of course!” Harry exclaims, like it’s the most ridiculous question he’s ever heard. “All of their pranks are brilliant and clever, and the skiving snackboxes and other inventions I’ve seen have had a lot of incredible charmwork and stuff.”

“Fred, George, how many OWLs do the both of you have?”

Fred winks. “Three each, darling. Our mother’s greatest disappointment to date.”

“See?” Luna gestures. “It’s a measure of conformity to academic ideals and rote memorization, not intelligence or learning at all. And I won’t even go into the fact that the prioritization of test scores largely exists as a legal means of racial and classist segregation and priority—” she huffs, blowing a stray hair out of her face. “Anyway. All of which is to say, I _love _learning—I want to be knowledgeable and witty and clever. I couldn’t give less of a fuck about testing.”

“Right on,” George grins reaching out his hand for a fist bump.

Luna blinks at him, looking baffled but still extending a hand to grip his fist. “Er—thank you.”

Harry holds back a smile at the interaction, while Hermione and Neville exchange a look at how utterly _besotted _ their friend is with his soul mate.

Ginny turns to Neville. “What’s your take on the matter?”

“Well—I mean, I’m not _too _worried, just because I don’t think things like exams matter in the real world, but I think if I do poorly my Gran might hex me, so—I’ll probably study quite a bit, if only to avoid that.” He yawns before turning the page in the book before him. “I mean, I’m not sure what I want to do yet—told McGonagall I’m thinking about Auror or herbology research, or barrister which at the moment I’m the most convinced I want to do…but since I’m not particularly set on anything I’m trying not to stress about it. I worry excessively enough, as is.”

“Why a barrister?” Hermione asks curiously.

Neville before this year would’ve squirmed at the prolonged attention on him, but over the last few months he’s started to really come into himself—his confidence solidifying, his volume increasing.

“My parents. And honestly—Sirius.” He blushes at the surprise on everyone’s faces. “There needs to be some justice in this world, or I can’t handle it. And I’d like to be a part of it. For him and Merlin knows how many other innocent people to go to Azkaban while people like Umbridge are in power…it makes me so _angry_. So if I can do something about it…well, I should.”

Fred claps him on the back, looking impressed, and the others likewise indicate their respect for Neville’s thoughts.

(Some days Hermione’s left to wonder how everyone around her can have such grand ideas when it’s all she can do to keep breathing.)

(And some days even that hurts.)

/

She’s only half conscious when Harry and Draco come into the RoR, both beginning to chatter and pulling off the Invisibility Cloak as soon as they’re inside.

The noise jostles her awake, and she hums and stretches before sitting up. “Harry? Draco? Did we—were we supposed to meet up?”

Draco smiles. “No, love, we were just bored and didn’t see you on the map so we figured you were here.”

Harry’s quiet for a moment, though; she follows his gaze to the severely depleted bottle of firewhiskey on the table beside her. “Harry, I—”

“You said you would stop. You _promised_, Hermione.”

“And I’ve been doing better!”

He fumes, hands tugging at his hair. “Getting so wasted you black out alone in the middle of the day isn’t _better_, Mia!”

“Well it’s as much as I can do right now, Harry! It lets me sleep and pass the day, makes it hurt less to _breathe_. You of all people should understand.”

“Juliet—”

“_Don’t_, Draco,” she snaps, arms crossed defensively.

“This isn’t healthy!” Harry snaps right back, his own posture stiff. “It’s not just a coping mechanism—you’re addicted and dependent.”

“I don’t really give a fuck,” she hisses. “Because as bad as it is for me, when I’m drunk I can keep from thinking about my uncle’s _voice_ and the way he’s always smiled when I _wince_ and the feeling of my own _blood_ being used as _lube_.”

She raises an eyebrow when Harry’s face contorts with pain, Draco practically convulsing behind him. “Oh, was that awful to hear, Harry? Did it make you feel sick?” She snatches up the firewhiskey, taking another pull before continuing. “Welcome to my fucking world, because that is what my thoughts are like _all the time_. That is _tame_, compared to some of the rest of it. And that’s without the accompanied sensory memories. So fucking forgive me if I have a bit of a drinking problem when it lets me keep from remembering shit like that from when I was _four_.”

(It’s sick, the satisfaction she gets from seeing the horror on their faces at the comment, but in a way it’s so validating to know others think it’s terrible too—to know these things that make her writhe and throw up and cringe from humanity make others cringe, too.)

“Mia…” Harry starts, before trailing off, at a loss for words.

Behind him, Draco’s sunk to the floor against the wall, eyes closed and hands pressed to his mouth.

“I know you mean well, Harry,” Hermione says, more gentle now. “And I know it’s—I know it’s only because you love me that you’re pushing so hard. But there are some things…I know it’s not good for me. But it’s the best that I can do right now.” Her voice breaks on the last word, eyes burning as they start to water. “I’m _trying. _I promise you, I’m trying. But while you’ve both been through a lot, you haven’t been through this, and I’m not necessarily saying that it’s worse, but—” the tears are flowing relentlessly, now, “you _don’t_ understand this. Don’t understand what it does to a person. And it’s been my whole life. I’ve only been really and truly free of it since the summer, so it’s—it’s going to take me a while to get to some semblance of better, which—if I’m being completely honest most days I’m not sure I ever will.”

(Which—that much they can somewhat understand; the ways that abuse forever changes you, no matter what happens after.)

Harry moves to step forward. “Can I—”

“No. Not—not right now.” She swallows heavily, eyes fluttering, hurrying to correct at the guilty look on his face. “Not because of anything you did—you meant well, we’re fine. I’m not upset with you; I promise, Harry. But it’s—a bad brain day for me, I’m already triggered and hypersensitive, and as much as I love you both…right now I really need some space.”

Draco’s expression is pained. “But—”

“I love you both more than anything in this world but if you don’t leave I will call Winky to forcibly remove you.”

A crack and Winky appears beside her, immediately moving to softly stroke her hair. “Mistress called for Winky?”

Hermione eyes the boys who both hold up their hands, relenting. “Yes, could you please get Pansy? Ask her to come—for drunk commiseration? Tell her—please tell her I need her.”

“Of course,” Winky says, but then snaps her fingers, a plate and water bottle appearing where the firewhiskey was. “But Mistress has to drink all of this and eat the bread before she can drink anymore. And I is bringing you and Miss Pansy dinner soon that you both has to eat.”

“Yes, Winky,” Hermione smiles fondly, wiping at the droplets on her cheeks.

“We love you, Mia,” Draco says softly, still looking pale, as he and Harry both waver by the door.

“I know,” she promises. “I love you too.”

(It’s only herself she’s ever lacked love for.)

(but she's--working on it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from dear john by taylor swift
> 
> so. Lots here. I…honestly normally the dark scenes are my favorite to write, bc they’re raw and honest and high key work as my therapy, but today…today I had to stop bc I was crying bc I live in a country where we now have evidence that our president has done this to /children/ and people are still going to support him. people in my life who claim to love me are going to still support him. and people are dying, and somehow some people still think it’s okay for the “wrong” amount of melanin to equal a death sentence, and I just…I am so, so tired. 
> 
> anyway. I promise next chapter will be less rough—we’ll have some sweet moments to balance. (and again will be v soon)
> 
> I love you all. I hope something in this world changes soon.


	23. even when your hope is gone

“Nice one, Colin!” Harry praises the younger Gryffindor as he passes him on his lap around the RoR. Across the room, Hermione meets his eyes with a hopeful smile at the success and dedication of all of ASA.

The mood of the group is much better than it has been—largely because at this point they’re all desensitized to Umbridge’s decrees and the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange is on the loose, but nonetheless, the four houses have gelled to the point of feeling united, and it’s—

(It makes Hermione feel like they might just stand a chance.)

“Mione,” Ron calls, an innocent smile on his face that means trouble. “Want to come with me to hit the kitchens after this?”

She rolls her eyes. “Why don’t you get Ginny to? Or the twins?”

“Twins claim to be tired, and Gin has plans with Blaise.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, turning to Ginny with an impressed expression. “She has plans with her boyfriend at ten o’clock at night and you’re fine with that? Despite your overprotective history?”

He blows out a deep breath, before monotonously saying, “Ginny is her own person and is allowed to do as she pleases in her life whether I like it or not, and as her brother it is my duty to respect that.”

Hermione bursts out laughing. “Good lord, Gin, did you confound him?”

“Better,” the other girl smirks sweetly. “I know where he keeps his dirty magazines and I told him if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut I might let slip to Mum.”

“Of course it was blackmail,” Hermione laughs. “Sorry, Ron, but I really have to get an arithmancy essay done. Maybe Neville would go.”

She looks to Harry, who nods in agreement that it’s time to switch to reviewing shield charms they’d learned earlier in the year, but now against stronger spells.

“Alright all, go ahead and stop what you’re doing!” she calls, voice resonating throughout the space. “We’re going to be moving on, and—”

A crack echoes through the room, making many of them jump.

Dobby stands before her, looking back and forth between both her and Harry with a terrified expression on his face.

“Dobby?” she asks incredulously, getting down on one knee to be at his level. “What’s wrong?”

“Mistress—and Harry Potter, sir. They is coming!”

Harry moves quickly to her side. “What do you mean they’re coming, Dobby? Who?”

“The woman! The one who is in pink,” he shrieks. “She and the students with her—they know about this place, and they come to find all of Harry Potter’s friends they know are breaking the rules!”

(A warning—Draco’s sent them a warning so they have time to get everyone out.)

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, head in his hands.

“Hey, it’s okay, we can handle this,” Hermione says, as though she’s not petrified herself.

(It’s almost like her need to protect him and their members overrides her own anxiety—just barrels through it, mobilizes her enough to figure out what to do.)

She gets to her feet, addressing the now hysterical room at large. “Okay, everyone, the Fidelius will protect all of your identities, so you just need to focus on getting back to your dormitories. Harry and I will stay here to make sure everyone gets out safely, we’ll contact you about how we’ll handle this going forward later; disillusion yourselves and run, now!”

They immediately do, though creating so much noise in the process she can only be thankful Umbridge isn’t yet there.

When everyone is gone, she and Harry steady themselves and move to the door, sans Invisibility Cloak they’d lent to some Hufflepuff first years still struggling with disillusionment—

Only for it to slam open in front of them, Umbridge’s expression thrilled at the sight of them.

“Well, well, well,” she says, and Hermione can see Draco’s carefully controlled look of horror where he stands behind her. “What do we have here?”

/

“Don’t worry, I’ve got _this _one,” Draco informs the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad, cruel smirk on his face as he moves to grip Hermione’s arm with the hand not holding her wand; where no one else can see, his thumb gently strokes her skin as if reminding her he’s with her.

She meets his eyes; his mouth is sneering, but his eyes are pleading, saying _why didn’t you get out in time?_

Her own scowl is hard, but he can see the reply beneath it—_someone had to take the fall, or they’d know we were warned._

He slows his pace, making it seem as though he’s strolling through the halls while intentionally falling behind Umbridge and the rest of the IS. When they’re far enough behind the rest, he leans his mouth closer to her ear. “Run, Mia—I’ll say you got away, overpowered me or something. You can hideout somewhere until it’s safe and Umbridge has calmed down.”

“You know me better than to think I would leave Harry to face this alone,” she whispers back. “Besides, they would be suspicious of you if you let me escaped—we can’t afford for them to doubt you this early. You have too important a role to play.”

When he still looks like he wants to send her away—like he might be contemplating calling Dobby to come whisk her off to Tonks Manor—she yells, “Let me _go_, Malfoy!” loudly enough for the others to turn.

“How’d she get the gag off,” Millicent Bulstrode scowls, moving closer to them.

Hermione can feel her boyfriend angrily glaring at her, but she doesn’t regret it. She won’t run from this.

(This is only the beginning.)

They’re marched into Dumbledore’s office, where the man himself looks far too unbothered by their state.

“My, Dolores, what’s this?”

“The leaders of the rebel group I’ve been telling you about for months.” Umbridge crosses her arms, looking pleased with herself. “I found them in a secret room filled with training mats, dummies, and spell shields. They even had a little board—a list of all the incendiary spells and hexes they’ve been learning to do, for their uprising against the Ministry.”

She reaches into her pocket for the very board, reversing the shrinking charm she’d cast to make it portable enough to transport, the board in question springing up in the office, **ASA** in bold black lettering at the top.

Hermione wants to kick herself for making the list and leaving it there as though something like this weren’t a possibility—and she wants to kick Draco for letting her leave it up, when the thought should’ve crossed his mind as well.

“Our informant is under some sort of vow and was unable to say anything more than the location itself,” Umbridge scowls at Hermione, as though knowing she’s responsible for the security measures. “And as soon as she _did_ say that much, her skin was horribly afflicted—some sort of failsafe intended to harm any noble members that try to stand with their Ministry, I’m sure. She’s currently in the infirmary.”

Harry’s eyes go wide, but Hermione purses her lips, satisfaction curling in her chest that some form of vengeance has been wrought against whoever it was that hose to betray them—and in doing so jeopardize everyone’s safety, and many Slytherin members’ _lives_.

“Excellent work here, Dolores,” Fudge praises her, a hungry look in his eye as he eyes the board.

Dumbledore clears his throat; he meets Hermione’s gaze with a knowing look and a sparkle in his eye. “Well, Dolores, you’ve caught me.”

Hermione and Harry’s necks both snap upward as they stare at him; meanwhile Umbridge’s jaw drops.

“Caught you?” Fudge asks, rapt with attention.

“Yes, my attempts to circumvent the Ministry’s authority with this group. ASA stands for Albus’s Secret Army, of course.”

Harry sucks in a breath at the implications; Hermione’s torn, half rolling her eyes at the ridiculous name and have wondering why he’s falling on his sword for them.

But as ridiculous as the statement is, it’s exactly the kind of thing Fudge has suspected for years—has worried was true and looked over his shoulder for every moment of his career.

(And that kind of paranoia—)

(it makes you ready to believe anything that confirms your beliefs, however outlandish. anything that proves you right seems plausible.)

“Aha! So you admit you’ve been forming an army to instill yourself as Minister! You’ve been plotting to depose me!”

“Now _that_, Cornelius, I assure you is not true. However I won’t deny that yes, I have been forming a coalition to defend in the upcoming war; I hate that I’ve had to take these measures, but as you refuse to accept the reality of Voldemort’s return—”

“Of course you manage to still believe yourself the hero, even as a traitor!” Fudge cries. “It’s an art form to circumvent the laws the constrict all other men as you do. Whatever you claim, Albus, you’d incriminated yourself in front of no less than four officials of the law. Dawlish, Shacklebolt, take him into custody!”

“Oh, no,” Dumbledore smiles. “That won’t be happening, today.”

Before Fudge can react, there’s a flash and a bang, and then the four Ministry officials are unconscious on the floor.

“Minerva, you know what you need to do in my absence,” Dumbledore delegates. “The office will be sealed, so get anything you need from here now. And touch base with your contact—finding out if anyone in connection with Dolores is influencing her on Voldemort’s behalf is critical.”

(Hermione feels her world, her very happiness, crumbling around her.)

/

Umbridge in charge is, as expected, an utter nightmare.

Rules are a million times more strictly enforced, the Inquisitorial Squad’s power growing exponentially—the halls are more somber than when there was an alleged mass murderer in the castle.

They’re still using the RoR for non-ASA purposes—they’d done some testing to ensure it was still secure for that much, and that having one of them intentionally ask it to not be able to be entered by others was effective.

“We have to do _something_,” Hermione urges, arms around her knees. “We can’t let her win. And we can’t—can’t live like this. This isn’t what Hogwarts is supposed to _be_.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and Harry scooches closer to her, rubbing her back when she leans her head on his shoulder.

Draco’s face is grim. “I don’t know what we _can_ do. Her power is only growing with every decree she signs, and with Dumbledore out of her way there’s not much to stop her. And it’s about to get worse,” he grimaces. “She’s told the Inquisitorial Squad that she intends to create a new policy to determine whether students are allowed to return to Hogwarts after the summer, requiring us all to provide a letter of reference from a relative who graduated Hogwarts in order to continue attending.”

Hermione chokes out a gasp. “A grandfather clause. She wants to institute a grandfather clause.” She presses a hand to her mouth, eyes beginning to burn. “My god. This is how a genocide starts.”

And she’s known the war is coming, of course—she’s a member of the organization that’s one of the two major players.

(But knowing it’s coming and watching the beginnings of what will surely become a massacre—)

(Watching the school that’s been her first real home become a breeding ground for discrimination—)

It’s enough to make her want to down an entire bottle of tequila.

But she resists—she’s been trying to resist, more, trying to blast more angry music and let herself cry and feel, as awful as it is.

(she’s not perfect, and she definitely keeps slipping up, but—she’s _trying_.)

And Draco and Harry have both been keeping an eye on her, but they’ve been good about not pushing, good about letting her dictate the terms while still supporting her.

(It’s—different, now. Her honesty, her experiences—it scared them.)

(which, she’s sorry that it was so awful for them, but it was also necessary.

(and to be able to only be traumatized by hearing about it, to not have it affect their lives—

(it’s a blessing she hopes they’ll never know they’ve had.)

That’s the part she didn’t say, that would horrify them even more; the thing about being a woman in this world means that you can never claim safety. Can never truly know that it’s over.

(Because maybe that person’s done. But who’s to say she won’t be attacked down the road, by an enemy or a stranger or a friend or a colleague?)

(The odds aren’t in her favor. They never have been.)

(So she can never get her hopes up and truly believe she’s free—because odds are, this is merely an interlude.)

/

While Ron was initially incredibly skeptical of Draco’s goodness, he’d quickly warmed up to the other boy—at which point Hermione immediately regretted bringing them together.

“How long has this been going?” Harry asks when he takes a seat beside her on the couch offering some of the candy in his hand.

“An hour, with no signs of letting up.” She rolls her eyes when Draco mentions an iconic 1852 match in Tokyo that has Ron fired up with excitement all over again, Ginny rapidly adding details to the story.

“I’ve always known Ron and Gin like Quidditch, and I mean I’ve had plenty of conversations with Draco about it, but this is…something else.”

Hermione nods in agreement, smiling fondly when he tilts her head onto her shoulder. “I never realize how much of him we don’t see—Ron, I mean. Because when he’s with us there mostly aren’t other purebloods around—other than Neville, who’s unconventional and doesn’t really engage with a lot of the hobbies and habits and things…”

“It’s a whole other side of him,” Harry agrees. “Weird. But—cool, to see him so in his element. And nice that he can have someone to talk about it with.”

“Very. Although at this rate we’ll never get them to talk about anything else.” She sighs. “Before they were talking shit about Umbridge together for a bit, that was lovely. Oh, and Ron found out Snape is Draco’s godfather, so he took the mickey out of him about it for a bit.”

Harry chokes. “He is not—you’re kidding! _Snape_?”

“I know. There’s a reason I’ve avoided telling you.” She laughs when he jokingly elbows her in retaliation.

Draco wanders over to them. “Get off my girl so I can cuddle with her, Potter.”

“You don’t want to cuddle with Ron?” she asks with an innocent expression, shrieking when he moves to playfully poke her sides.

(His own alternative to tickling, which he’d discovered the week before was triggering for her.)

Harry acquiesces, scooting far enough down the couch for all three of them to fit; Draco pulls her into the cage of his arms, and she hums contentedly.

(Whatever kind of shitshow her mind is, however chaotic the world is, the people in this room that she loves love her.)

(She can get through it.)

Draco smirks, eyes far too satisfied. “Oh, Weasley—I have a present for you before the match tomorrow.”

Ron raises his eyebrows, and Draco pulls something out of his robes and chucks it into the other boy’s lap.

Immediately, Ron bursts out laughing. “Oh, merlin, this is going to be good. Go ahead and explain it then.”

“Did you make ridiculous badges again?” Hermione scowls at her boyfriend, who pecks her as though the quick kiss will distract her.

“Yes—and quite hit the mark, if I do say so myself. This time I even came up with a _song_ to go with them.”

“You sing?” Ginny says disbelievingly.

Draco waves away her skepticism. “Not spectacularly or anything, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll circulate them and the lyrics all night and at breakfast tomorrow, and everyone that’s not in Gryffindor will be able to sing along.”

“Do I even want to know what it says that makes me a king to Slytherin?” Ron asks, looking a little too excited about the way he’s about to be made fun of.

“No, that would spoil the surprise. You need something to think about so you don’t get distracted over nothing again—you’re quite good at Quidditch, it’s honest more annoying than anything when you psych yourself up so much.”

Ron purses his lips. “I think there was a compliment somewhere in there. And yet somehow I feel no obligation to thank you.”

“No need,” Draco grins. “You can thank me after we all salute you tomorrow.”

The next afternoon, Ginny had grumbled when Hermione harassed her into skipping the Quidditch match to come with her to Hagrid’s, but she doesn’t seem to mind now that the whole stadium is singing about her brother.

“I know a lot of the Slytherins _mean_ it badly, but Draco made it as a joke and Ron is definitely taking the whole thing as a joke—as he should, of course—but an entire stadium singing his name is just an ego boost I do _not_ need to watch him get.”

(It was comical, really, how pleased Ron was by the anthem.)

And it did exactly what Draco intended—the badges, wondering about the song, the entertainment of it all—it kept Ron distracted, so engaged with the _Weasley is Our King _tide that he didn’t dwell on his own worries and nerves and inferiority complex, smiling instead of his usual pre-match grey pallor and sheen of sweat.

“I think Harry’s glad for it at least, drawing some of the attention off him,” Hermione smiles. “Although I didn’t realize how bad of an idea the two of them being friends was. Still—I love these moments, when everyone else thinks we’re fighting and they have no idea. When all of this is over…”

Pansy reaches to shake her shoulder when she frowns at the thought. “Hey—it will be over eventually. It seems far away right now, but—we can do this. The Order, the light—it will win.”

“I know. I’m just—”

(_tired of hiding. tired of living in the shadows. tired of holding my breath and waiting for the other shoe to drop.)_

“Ginny, Hermione, Pansy!” Luna skips up beside them, despite the fact that they’re under the invisibility cloak.

Pansy’s eyes go wide. “How can you see us? Is the cloak faulty?’

“Just roll with it,” Hermione advises. “Luna just—knows things. Sometimes she credits the Sight, other times the nargles, but she’s always right regardless.”

“Here, get under the cloak, Luna,” Ginny offers, lifting the edge.

Luna smiles. “No, that’s okay. If I get under all our ankles will be visible, and then the jig is up; if I walk alongside it’ll look like I’m just going into the forest alone, which is pretty common anyway. You _are_ headed for the forest, right?”

“Yes, Hagrid asked me to meet him.”

“You’re sure he’ll be okay with all of us tagging along?” Pansy asks, making a face.

“Oh, of course he will,” Luna says, voice airy. “It’s always the more the merrier with Hagrid. I spend a lot of time with him because of my independent study and all, and he’s happy to meet any friends I’ve brought down with me.”

“Yes, but—” the other girl swallows with difficulty, glad none of them can see her face under the cloak. “I’m a Slytherin. For all he knows—”

“Hey.” Hermione puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Hagrid isn’t the greatest teacher in the world in a lot of ways. But one thing he’s not is blindly hateful of his students. He cares about everyone, gives everyone a fair shot and the benefit of the doubt. And he won’t hold Dumbledore’s prejudices against you.”

Pansy’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t reply, expression a stoic calm that Hermione has learned means the Slytherin is anxious.

“I bet he’d _love_ Ella,” Ginny grins, trying to cheer the other girl up. “He’s all about creatures that could kill him.”

“Who’s Ella?” Luna wonders aloud, cocking her head to the side as they finally enter the forest and the other three pull off the cloak Hermione then stuffs into her bag.

“Pansy’s snake. Super sweet but verrrry venomous.”

“Hello, Hermione.” They all jump in surprise at the sound of Hagrid’s voice—it’s almost humorous, given that the man is seven feet tall and not exactly quiet and yet still managed to sneak up on them—but he smiles down at them as kindly as always.

Hermione beams at him. “Hi, Hagrid. I hope you don’t mind I have a few tagalongs.”

“Course not!” He waves to the others, looking surprised when he catches sight of Luna. “Luna, always good to see you! I didn’t know you were friends with this lot.”

“She is! And if she hadn’t already been,” Ginny smirks mischievously, “she definitely would be now, seeing as she’s Harry’s soul mate.”

Hagrid’s entire face lights up. “Our Harry? And you, Luna?” He claps his hands together joyfully when she smiles in reply. “Oh, that’s so wonderful to hear.” He turns to Pansy, giving her a careful nod. “Miss Parkinson.”

“Hi, Hagrid.” She tries to maintain her unaffected expression, but the anxiousness leaks through—that much, Hagrid can understand, and offers her a small smile.

“Well, then, you can all follow me—we’re headed to the back.” He’s carrying a hefty crossbow, and looking a little more on guard than Hermione would like.

“What is it that we’re doing exactly, Hagrid?” Hermione asks timidly as they make their way deeper into the forest.

“You’ll see,” he mumbles. “I—I hate to ask this of you, because I know you all have a lot on your plates already—don’t say it’s not true, I know you’re doing more than I even know. But as I’ll likely be getting the boot any day now, I need someone to—well.”

“What are you talking about?? Hagrid, she can’t sack you!” Ginny cries, eyes livid with righteous anger.

“ ‘M afraid she can, and she will. It’s only a matter of time.” He rubs at his temples as they walk. “She’s had it out for me from the beginning, of course, me being half…you know. Only person she hates more than me is our Remus, but he’s _careful_, and a brilliant teacher. As hard as she tries, there’s nothing she can use against him to justify firing him. But me…well, we all know I’m far from perfect, meself.”

“You’re not perfect, but you’re our teacher and we love you,” Hermione insists. “And you’re the gamekeeper too, she can’t just—Hogwarts is your home! Professor McGonagall must be able to do something.”

A sad smile fills his face. “Home is wherever the people you love are. I’ve loved Hogwarts since I was a little tyke, but…I’ll be okay if I have to go somewhere else until Dumbledore’s back in power. And as much as I think Minerva would, her authority is limited at the ‘mo. We need some of the light to still be here when the storm comes.”

“That’s not _fair_,” Pansy bites out, voice raspy. “Merlin, I just—I hate this.”

“Me too,” Hagrid agrees. “But good will out. One day all the harm she causes will come back to bite her in the—anyway. Here we are.”

They’re stopped before a clearing, a mound of boulders in the middle of it, and Hagrid looks at them expectantly.

Ginny’s eyebrows pull together. “Hagrid, what are we—”

“Oh, god,” Hermione gasps; beside her, Luna’s eyes are wide, though not filled with the same fear. “Hagrid you didn’t!”

“He didn’t what?” Ginny asks.

“It’s a giant,” Luna tells her, watching both she and Pansy’s jaws drop. “Not necessarily the tallest, but—a giant.”

“In the middle of Hogwarts,” Hermione says faintly. “Jesus, Hagrid, we had a hard enough time trying to sneak Norbert away, and he was only a baby!”

Pansy raises an eyebrow. “Norbert?”

“Dragon he hatched first year,” Hermione says, waving it away like it’s nothing before turning back to Hagrid. “Hagrid, really?”

“I had to.” He insists, expression desperate. “He—he’s my brother, on me mum’s side. He’s smaller than all the rest of them, and young, and he doesn’t understand…I couldn’t just leave him,” He explains, begging them to understand.

“What all do we need to do to take care of him if you have to leave?” Pansy asks, regaining her bearings the quickest out of all of them.

Hagrid’s eyes grow grateful. “It’s not so much taking care of him—he gets his own food, ‘n all that. He just needs_company_—I don’t want him to be lonely, and he has a hard time when he doesn’t get to socialize much. He won’t talk back to yeh, really, you can just come down and ramble on, or even do homework and just sit by him—anything would help, if you all could manage to check on him once a week or so.”

Hermione’s tugging at her hair, muscles tense with stress at the prospect.

(One more secret, one more broken rule, one step closer to consequences they can’t afford.)

(But this is _Hagrid_.)

“Of course we will,” Ginny promises, a soothing hand moving to rub Hermione’s back. “I’m sure the boys will come too, some days. They can play Quidditch, or something. They’ll be thrilled at one more thing right under Umbridge’s nose.”

“And I’m out here a lot anyway, what with all the research I’ve been doing for my Independent study,” Luna pipes up, voice cam. “We’ll look after him, Hagrid.”

Hermione clears her throat. “What—what do you want us to do if the end of term comes and Umbridge is still in charge? If we have to leave for summer…”

Hagrid pinches at the bridge of his nose, facing them reluctantly. “If summer comes and Hogwarts is still overrun, we’ll have much worse things to worry about than loneliness.”

/

She and Draco are firing hexes back and forth at each other as a means of studying for Remus’s test the following day; it’s one they’ve both already mastered, but they figure it can’t hurt to practice both casting and shielding and building up dueling endurance.

Harry’s lying down on the couch, with Ella draped across his chest, despite Pansy having left for a Prefect patrol.

The two of them are hissing in parsletongue incessantly, Harry occasionally bursting out laughing, attempting to relay the story to the rest of the room only to realize he’s still speaking parsletongue and start laughing all over again.

“Okay, I give,” Draco says, panting. “Can we do McGonagall’s essay now instead?”

“_You _can. I finished mine while you were at Quidditch practice,” she teases, sticking out her tongue when he makes a face.

“Keep that to yourself or I’ll get ideas, and then we’ll have to evict Harry,” he threatens, eyes locked on her lips.

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

“Ugh,” Draco groans, taking a seat at the table they have set up for homework. “We need to be productive. Besides, we still have to figure out what we’re going to do about ASA. OWLs are getting closer.”

“And the war,” Hermione murmurs, eyes going dark. “We can’t stop helping them prepare. But I’ve been thinking about it constantly, I can’t think of a way for us to get around Umbridge knowing about the room, now—at least not a way that allows all of ASA to still meet here.”

(It’s been two weeks since they were busted—)

(two weeks of radio silence, two weeks of trying and failing to come up with an alternative way for the group to meet now that the RoR is compromised.)

“I know. Me either. But there has to be _something_,” he whispers, mind racing a million miles an hour. “That can’t just be it.”

They’re quiet for a moment, hopelessly trying to come up with an alternative.

Hermione’s so _frustrated_, because they’ve made it against so many obstacles, this group that had every reason not to succeed and yet did anyway. They deserve so much more than to go out like this.

The four houses had been united for the first time in living memory, they were _doing _something to protect themselves and fight the powers that be attempting to systemically disadvantage them, and now because of something as simple as a traitor and an outed location she’s sitting here watching her boyfriend’s belief fade while her best friend chatters with a snake to distract himself from how his heart breaks at the loss of this group that’s grown to mean the world to him.

_(chatters with a snake—)_

“That’s it!” she gasps, feeling the air rush into her lungs. “We’re all so stupid, I can’t believe we didn’t think of it sooner.”

“What?” Draco asks, but she’s not looking at him.

Harry meets her gaze with a quizzical tilt of his head. “What’s up, Mia?”

“Let her think she’s broken us,” she whispers, the fire in her chest burning bright. “Let her think she knows the secret and so the fight has gone out in us. But we’ve only just begun.”

“Clarification could be good, Meez.”

And she smiles—a brilliant smile like she hasn’t had in ages. “No matter if she figures us out, again, either, because she won’t be able to get to us. We’ll be meeting in the Chamber of Secrets.”

(In unison, Harry and Draco grin.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from move along by all american rejects  
please if you can’t afford to donate to BLM (or even if you can) go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM&list=PLSBEaAXSLjGhfjZHnYmscX4d378lfv0v_&index=1 all ad sense proceeds are going to the movement and it’s literally SO easy to just turn on in a youtube window on loop even in the background of whatever you’re doing  
~climactic~ stuff will be the next two chapters so get hype (I am!) bc those will also be up in the next few days  
so much love to y’all. thank you as always for your thoughts, comments, and love—truly they mean so much to me.


	24. tired and angry (but somebody should be)

The only downside to meeting in the Chamber, is that being the only parsletongue among them, Harry has to sit outside the chamber for half an hour to let everyone in as they arrive—which means a _lot_ of facetime with Myrtle.

Which—he’s happy to be friendly with her, but the more she talks about watching him and every other wizard in the baths….

(well. He thinks it’s fair to feel very, very uncomfortable with the situation, however tragic the circumstances surrounding her death.)

Five after start time, once they’ve sent out a last-call on the DA galleons, he heads into the chamber himself, where the entirety of ASA is talking at top volume, eyes wide as they take in the space.

(Naturally, their eyes are drawn to the mammoth decayed basilisk corpse and bus-sized snakeskin, though the statue of Slytherin’s likeness pulls quite a bit of attention as well.)

Everyone had heard about the truth of the Chamber’s existence three years ago, of course, but an elderly Headmaster assuring you it’s reclosed is not quite as belief-inspiring as being _inside_ the millenia old space of legend.

(Hermione finds herself fondly remembering that time, however horrible it had been then, for being when Draco came into her life—as himself.)

(They had no idea, then, how they would come to be each other’s world.)

Hermione stands near the likeness of Salazar, looking tired but less stressed than Harry’s seen her in weeks and weeks. He makes his way to stand next to her; raises his eyebrows in the way that silently asks if she’s okay and waiting for the smile that promises she is before attempting to get the room’s attention. “Hello! Er—everyone!”

A few of the people standing at the front quiet down, but the rest of the room can’t hear him over their own conversations; he sighs, casting a sonorous before trying again. “All, can I get your attention, please! We’re about to begin.”

The noise simmers down, and they all turn to him and Hermione expectantly, though still wide eyed and overwhelmed by the gravity of the new meeting space.

“Right, then.” She clears her throat. “Glad you all made it. Harry and I want to apologize for the breech in security, and any anxiety you all experienced due to the situation—the beauty of our new meeting space is that even if our location is somehow exposed again, it is impossible for Umbitch to get in.”

The other students cheer, both at the announcement and her use of the nickname.

(Anti-Umbridge sentiment has been rampant all year, but since Dumbledore’s departure, as her treachery has grown worse the student body’s unification against her has exponentially exploded.)

Harry picks up where she left off. “That being said, we’re going to have to be more careful than ever before. OWLs are right around the corner, though, and summer, which—for some of us, may be a more difficult and unsafe time, so we aren’t going to let the circumstances affect how hard we’re working. Of course you all have to make whatever choice is best for you—if you want to devote less time to ASA, we support that as well, but for Hermione and I this remains a priority in light of what we’re currently facing.”

“And,” Hermione adds, “while I want to trust all of you, and do care for each and every person here, what happened proved that even those close to us are capable of betrayal—and we don’t need to talk about who it was, or why they did it. But, I want you all to know I _have _strengthened the security enchantments on our roster contract, and the results of _any mention _of anything at all ASA will result in some _very_ unfortunate consequences, which only I am able to reverse.” She clenches her jaw as she stares the room down. “And if anyone in this room is put in danger, I doubt I will be very inclined to do so. So I suggest not trying to find any loopholes.”

Lavender looks at her with wide eyes. “As glad as I am…some days I really do think you should’ve been in Slytherin.”

A scoff from Pansy, as well as varied laughter and disagreement from the rest of the Slytherin members.

Ernie McMillan puffs up his chest. “What, you lot can’t stand the thought of a muggle-born in your house?”

Hermione opens her mouth to attempt to defuse the situation—they’d made it this far into the year with relatively good interhouse relations, but this is a fuse with centuries of kindling, with the potential to blow sky high.

But Pansy gets there first.

“Merlin and Morgana,” the dark haired Slytherin says, rolling her eyes in an exasperated way. “Always assuming the worst. Of course. Listen, none of the Slytherins in this room have a problem with muggle-borns, or we wouldn’t have joined a resistance group that most of our family’s would _literally_ crucio us if they knew we were a part of, yeah?” She blows out a breath, tucking flyaway hairs behind both ears, not meeting anyone’s eyes as the other houses realize the statement is not an exaggeration, and the whispers of other houses abruptly go silent. “You think we’re these awful people, but that’s not us. You don’t know us—and we’re not the horror stories your parents have told.”

Daphne snaps her fingers in agreement, Theo nodding beside her.

Blaise speaks up as well. “We all laughed because Hermione is the farthest thing from a Slytherin—doesn’t have much of an ambitious bone in her body. She’s cunning and clever, sure, but those are skills she’s _using_ for protective purposes—defending the people in the group is what she actually _values_, and that’s about as Gryffindor as it gets.”

Ernie, along with a good number of people across the houses, looks flabbergasted—but this is _good_.

The confusion means that they’re listening—means they’re actually processing the information.

(This is where change begins, where unity grows, Hermione just _knows_ it.)

(it’s the beginning of something—something bigger than just them.)

“Um—er—” Neville gets to his feet, wringing his hands but expression confident. “I know a lot of us have heard a lot of rumors about each other—especially about Slytherin—over the years,” “And I know that some of the negative commentary has come from authority figures, so we trust it implicitly. I mean, I grew up in a house that praised Dumbledore, but he incites division constantly, embodies partiality and injustice when it comes to interhouse matters—and that’s coming from a Gryffindor, who constantly benefits from his favoritism. So I can’t imagine how much of it I haven’t even noticed because it hasn’t negatively impacted me. But while there are definitely some individuals who hold onto old prejudices, many if not most of the Slytherins I’ve met personally have been anything but their reputation. And there are terrible people in every house—Barty Crouch sent Sirius Black to Azkaban without a trial and let loose the man who tortured my parents, and he was a Ravenclaw.”

Several of the Slytherins give him nods of respect and appreciation, Theo reaching to clap him on the shoulder in a friendly way.

Hermione smiles proudly at him—his willingness to bare his soul to the room to support what’s right, his even tone while asserting his opinion—_this _is why he is the best of Gryffindor. Why he’ll make a great Head Boy, in a few years.

“Neville’s exactly right,” she says. “The word Slytherin is not synonymous with evil—hell, the very man who betrayed Harry’s parents to Voldemort _and _resurrected him last year was a Gryffindor.” She waits, cocking an eyebrow as shock fills the room. “Exactly. Our house—at the end of the day, it means nothing in regard to our morals, only the values with which we live them. If you ask me, the only reason Slytherin has such a negative reputation is because their ambition and cunning make them likely to succeed in all endeavors—including achieving power for corrupt purposes.”

Lavender raises an eyebrow. “What about the blood supremacist founder? Are we just ignoring that?”

Hermione shakes her head, feeling her heart rate spike with excitement at finally getting to correct the misconception that pervades England she’s been contemplating alone for years. “See, I’ve actually done a lot of research into the history of the house and Salazar himself, for—obvious reasons.” A gesture to herself, mind bursting with hundreds of memories of being eleven, falling asleep amidst the ancient historic shelves of the library, trying so desperately to understand why her new world was the way it was. “Salazar cautioned the _way _the other founders were bringing muggle-borns into our world. He disliked mixing muggle and magic, as it posed a serious danger to magic society—and to be fair, at this point in time the number of witches and wizards in the world is incredibly low, and anyone accused of witchcraft was burned at the stake. He was especially cautious because the parsletongue ability that he and some pureblood families possessed was one of the most dangerous things for muggles to find out about, as they always saw it as devil speak or satanism. Salazar didn’t want himself or the people relying on him to face that kind of risk.

“Which, is honestly understandable, as there was a massacre at a wizarding school in Greece a century before Hogwarts was opened, because one pupil’s parent believed their son to be possessed, and together with their entire muggle village showed up at the magic school in the dead of night to attack. Only two people in the entire school survived.” She takes a sip of water before continuing. “Salazar actually initially only said he would require any muggle-borns in his house to cut all ties with their muggle family to keep themselves and their peers safe; the other founders said that wasn’t a fair thing to ask, and so he said in that case he wasn’t willing to take the risk of muggle-borns in his house. Of course, if you have one house that has only students with ancient ties, all of whom come into Hogwarts with eleven years of magical experience and generations’ worth of lineage and knowledge…well, it’s no surprise that the policy was contorted into something prejudiced and sinister, however genuine its roots. And when you-know-who rolled around, it was a perfect rallying point—he was seeing how effective it was in the muggle world as his followers coalesced around his power, what with the second world war stirring while he was in school.”

She finally stops to take a breath, then blushes at the way the entire room is staring at her, deathly silent. “Sorry. That was—my bad. Too much of a tangent.”

“No, that’s all really good for everyone to know,” Harry smiles encouragingly, though his eyes are far away. “Makes sense. I always wondered why a half-blood was the leader of a blood supremacy movement.”

“He’s a half-blood?” Susan Bones asks with wide eyes. “What? Are you sure?”

‘Er, yeah,” Harry scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I spoke to—I mean, read his diary—second year, and he said his dad was a muggle.”

The chamber erupts in whispers, but Hermione shoots up sparks to get everyone’s attention. “I know that’s a lot of new information, and it might be a bit hard to focus after that, but—we’ve already lost almost fifteen minutes, we need to go ahead and start practice, okay? Go ahead and cast your numbing charms and then we’re practicing stinging hexes for fifteen minutes.”

As Harry’s walking around to observe and see who needs help where, he feels a tug on his sweater; he turns to see a Hufflepuff first year, biting her lip nervously. “Hi, bud, what can I do for you?”

“I—” her expression is nervous, but she grounds herself decisively. “I’m a parseltongue.”

“Oh!” His eyes go wide, and he’s first shocked, then excited. “Really? I’ve never met anyone else who could speak it! Unless you count Voldemort, I suppose, but it’s not as though I’m going to sit down for tea with him to talk about it.”

The girl giggles, pushing a few of her braids over her shoulder, looking just a bit less tense after his silliness. “Yeah, I—I haven’t told anyone here, because—well, the rumors, and the superstitions, and all. My grandparents on my mom’s side used to live in the Congo, they actually met working with tropical snake species because they’re both parseltongues. There are a lot more species of snakes there, so there’s a really high demand…” She shrugs, as though worried she’s rambling. “Anyway, I just wanted to say, if you need help letting everyone in, or anything, or if we’re ever worried Umbridge is coming or anything…well, this is a girl’s bathroom, so I would probably be less suspicious. I’m happy to help.”

Harry smiles at her. “That’s so kind of you, and it would be a big help; god knows I almost lost my voice doing it tonight. Your name is Aaliyah, right?”

She beams, nodding in confirmation, and they make plans to chat about it one day soon during breakfast, and he moves on with his rounds with just a bit more spring in his step.

As much as Sirius, Remus, and Andy have spent the last two years trying to hammer home that parsletongue is not evil or a skill only possessed by dark wizards…well, he’s worried quite a lot.

(A part of him has always wondered if he didn’t defeat Voldemort because he was an even more powerful dark wizard—wondered if some day he might become the one everyone around him feared and fought against.)

(It’s a thought that’s kept him up more nights than he cares to admit.)

But hearing what Hermione had to say about Slytherin, the root of the rumors that parseltongues are evil, and talking to Aaliyah, who sounded as though in countries with significant reptile populations the ability isn’t at all uncommon—

(makes him feel just a bit less isolated. just a bit more like a part of the wizarding world.)

(a bit more like a normal wizard.)

When the meeting ends, everyone begins to filter back up to the entrance via the now rubble-free staircase (thanks to several hours of Harry, Hermione, and Ron levitating and vanishing it), rather than taking the phoenix mode of transport Harry had made use of second year.

Hermione waves him ahead, mumbles about needing to finish up a few things and smiling as he leaves, before turning her narrowed eyes to her target.

She approaches him carefully, making sure the people with him aren’t paying attention, grabbing his sleeve just before he makes to approach the staircase. “Can I talk to you for just a minute?” she asks, putting on her sweetest smile.

She watches Roger’s eyes flicker down to the v of her sweater, a smirk forming on his face that makes her want to gag. “Of course, Hermione—it is Hermione, right?”

“I—yeah, wow, I didn’t think you’d know who I am,” she simpers, forcing a blush.

It’s the worst acting she’s ever done, and if his ego were any less mammoth he would realize it—he’s been coming to meetings (back before she knew the truth and conveniently made sure meetings were always scheduled when he couldn’t come—this is the first she hasn’t done so for in ages, and solely for this purpose).

This girl who’s unsure of herself, is surprised whenever anyone realizes she exists—she hasn’t been this girl in a long time.

(But she’s not at all surprised he falls for it.)

(Men like him…they think the world begins and ends with their own breath.)

The darkest part of her whispers all manner of suggestions as to how to deal with him—she’s not proud of the things she considers.

(all three unforgivables. A basilisk fang to the chest. A _wingardium leviosa_’d brick to the head and a claim that he’d tripped.)

But she resists, waits until they’re alone in the chamber.

Roger smirks, moving to take a step closer to her. “This is very…private.”

“Mhm.” Her lips curve, before she whispers “_Expelliarmus_.”

It doesn’t even cross his mind to be worried—he merely assumes she’s making a move. His gaze just grows hungrier, and he moves to tug his shirt off.

_“Flipendo_,” she says, the words quiet but crisp. She tries not to enjoy the thud of his flesh hitting the cement as he’s thrown back against the well.

(but this is the bastard who hurt Pansy—who bruised her skin and her soul, broke her bones and her spirit, made her bleed and hurt.)

(traumatized her the way Hermione knows all too well.)

(she wants him to suffer—so much so it scares her.)

“_Incarcerous_,” she casts next, slowly striding to where ropes bind him in place, his face just beginning to grow upset.

“What the hell, Granger? Is this some kind of—kink, for you? You need to cut it out.”

“Why?” she whispers. “Don’t like being at someone else’s mercy? Don’t like not being in control of what happens to your own body?”

He starts tugging at the restraints in earnest, but instead of getting scared he gets angry.

(it doesn’t even cross his mind to fear her. underestimating her, of course.)

“Listen, you little bitch—”

“Oh, no, I think I’m tired of hearing you speak, now. _Silencio_. _Immobulus_.” Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Much better. This will take much less time without you interrupting.”

Standing here, staring into his eyes—she never knew she was capable of this kind of _anger_.

(she’s always hated her uncle, of course—thoughts of him have always been painful and nauseating and all kinds of complicated awful.)

(but she’d never in a million years to take up arms against him. she’s not—he’s a monster, and she’s glad he’s gone from her life.)

she can handle the horrors done to her.

But Pansy’s pain is unacceptable.

“You are _very_ lucky,” Hermione tells him, the hate in her eyes now visible. “that I believe so strongly in my moral principles. Otherwise you would already be dead.” His mouth begins to move soundlessly, and she holds up a hand. “Ah, ah, I don’t care. If you’re attempting to give a reason why I would be unable to kill you, rest assured I have thought up many, many different plans as to how I might get away with such a thing. As I said, you’re lucky.”

He glares, but a bit of nerves are beginning to edge into his eyes.

_(Good.)_

“I considered so, so many ways to hurt you—ways to make you feel even a fraction of the pain you’ve caused. You still don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’ A bitter half of a laugh escapes her. “You’re so far removed from it. My god.”

Hermione crosses her arms, staring him dead in the eye. “Well, Roger, as it happens, Pansy Parkinson is one of the people dearest to me in this world. Oh, now you’re scared?” she asks, noticing the way he goes pale. “You probably should be. You should be _terrified_ of people knowing the kind of monster you are, you absolute piece of _shit_.”

She takes a step closer, till she’s just inches away from him—trying not to tremble at the proximity to a known predator, however incapable of hurting her he is at the moment. “This is you getting your due for what you did to her. No, I won’t have the same done to you,” she says, when his eyes go wide. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, however much you deserve it. I did consider stealing one of Umbridge’s quills—would’ve been interesting to have you write lines till you had a scar that said _I will stop being an abusive rapist_, don’t you think?”

Shrugging, she moves her arms to take down her hair and redo her bun. “But again, morals, so I decided against it. I think I’ve found something suitable, though.” She stretches her arms a bit before taking her wand back out. “I’ve been doing some research into lesser known magic, and stumbled across a rather complex but suitable spell—and we both know I’m quite good at casting.

“Tell me, Roger, are you very familiar with the Bible? This lovely magic is called the curse of Cain—though the name is a bit inverted.” She clears her throat, before holding up her wand carefully—as much as she’s been practicing, it’s a delicate piece to perform. “_Septem dolorum_.” Carefully, so carefully, she completes the motion, letting out a deep breath when she feels the magic settle, despite the drain on her magic that makes her have to work hard not to lurch.

She smiles at Roger. “For the rest of your life, any pain you cause, you will feel sevenfold. Pity we can’t backdate it,” she comments, making a face. “You know what the beauty of this is, Roger? I’m not hurting you—I am genuinely causing you no harm. But you…” another soft, bitter laugh. “Men like you just can’t stop yourselves from hurting people. As much as I would love for you to never harm another soul, I _know_ you will. And so you’ll do the dirty work for me—and pay, for every other person you hurt. Every other girl you try to take advantage of, every other vulnerable good person you want to assert your power over—you will have to face and feel _exactly_ how horrible of a monster you are.”

Straightening, she crosses her arms as she stares him down. “That’s it—no need to keep freaking out, I won’t hurt you or hex you, however much you deserve it. The only conditions are these: you will not tell anyone what happened here today. You will keep your disgusting hands off every girl in this school. You will stop coming to ASA meetings. And—listen, this is the most important one—you will stay the _fuck_ away from Pansy. Not a word, not a letter, not even in the same _room_ as her if you can possibly help it.”

The hatred of her gaze burns into him. “If I find out you in any way broke any of these conditions, I will come for you. I will not be nearly as kind. And I will not be alone.” Her lips curve upward. “My guardian is Sirius Black—the only person to ever break out of Azkaban, and the patriarch of one of the most powerful families in England. He used to be an Auror, you know?” She cocks her head to the side with an empty smile. “Sirius doesn’t like abusers. And he _really_doesn’t like rapists. So if I were you, I would follow my rules.”

A wave of her wand, and his bindings are gone, the only indication that he’s no longer silenced the heaving breaths of fear he’s sucking in.

“You can go, now,” she tells him. “I hope we never cross paths again.”

He hurries out of the chamber with all the speed of the Quidditch star that he is. She waits a few minutes, wrestling with the encounter.

(Worried she went too far. Worried she didn’t go far enough.)

But it’s—she’s spent months, grappling with how to handle it. With what he deserved and what punishment it was moral for her to exact. With where the line lay.

(But there is no line. The world is grey.)

(Crime and punishment only more so.)

After giving him a five minute head start, to make sure she definitely doesn’t bump into him again, she heads out of the chamber and up to the RoR.

When she arrives, only Draco is there, already half asleep, though he smiles when she approaches, moving to cuddle her without opening his eyes when she’s changed into her nightclothes and crawled into bed beside him.

“Y’okay, love? What took you so long?”

She considers telling him—asking if he thinks she did the right thing. Letting him reassure her or judge her as he sees fit, so long as there’s a second opinion.

But—she’s exhausted, and drained, and now that the adrenaline is fading it’s hitting her how terrified she was deep down to be left alone underground with a known monster.

(And maybe, for now, it’s okay to trust that she did her best.)

She’ll tell him eventually, of course; Draco makes every burden easier to bear.

(But at this moment, she’s going to sleep, and recover, and just—keep breathing.)

(Sometimes, that’s as much as she can manage, and that’s okay.)

“Don’t worry,” she says, feeling the tension in her body ease just a bit as his form curls around her. “Just—dealing with some loose ends. Managing some trauma things. I’ll tell you soon.”

“Okay, baby.”

After a moment or so, she can’t help but roll over and face him; he blinks his eyes open, knowing she wants his attention.

She chews on her lip. “Do you think I’m a good person? Am I—do you think I could ever go too far, do the wrong thing? Become…dark?”

Draco lets out a long sigh before responding, one hand rubbing her back all the while. “Well, I think—I think all of us are capable of going too far. And I think when you go through the kind of shit we have…it can be easy for the darkness to feel familiar. To grow too accustomed to it. But you…Mia, you are the epitome of goodness. I’ve always wondered if fate made a mistake, us being soul mates, because I can’t possibly deserve the kind of goodness you have at heart. And that’s not to say you’re perfect, because of course you’re not, but at your core you have a _strong_ moral compass and a soul that cries with the hearts of the downtrodden. Anything that could be considered bad I’ve ever seen you do has been on their behalf, and I don’t think that constitutes a wrong.”

“Thanks,” she says thickly, trying to choke back tears at his soothing reassurance. “Who knew you could wax poetic like that, Romeo?”

“Shut up and go to sleep, my ridiculous girl,” Draco mutters.

(she’s out before he finishes the sentence.)

/

There’s a sense of foreboding in the air.

It spreads through the castle, intensifying till it’s almost palpable as the end of year quickly approaches; every house, every class, every student.

Ron gets a letter from Percy—the mail is being read, so he’s written carefully coded messages, outwardly advising him to stop associating with Harry but beneath the cipher warning that Umbridge is planning something big, has been in contact with several higher ups in the ministry besides Fudge with increasing frequency.

So they do their best to brace themselves, but they have no idea what they’re in for.

(They’re not ready, when it comes.)

They’re taking their astronomy OWL—Hermione’s nervous but doing fine, of course, while Harry and Ron bullshit their way through the exam knowing they’re about as likely to pass as they are to meet Merlin himself.

(Unbothered, as it’s not a course they’ll ever need again.)

At one point, ink creeps along Hermione’s wrist, saying _number 7 must be your favorite_.

(Seven being the question about the constellation Draco, of course.)

She snorts, but before she can make to reply there’s a ruckus from down on the grounds; their entire year moves closer to the wall despite the proctor’s protests to see a small form that can only be Umbridge, flanked by four officials in riot gear.

(Why the hell would anyone need to be outfitted for war on the schoolgrounds, in the middle of the night?)

They storm toward Hagrid’s cottage, and Hermione immediately turns to Harry knowing he’s about to do something stupid and reckless.

“Don’t,” she hisses, grabbing his arm gently to keep him from racing down to interfere. “You won’t get there in time to help, and you’ll just give Umbridge more ammunition.”

_“How dare you!”_ McGonagall races out just behind them as they begin firing jets of light at the cottage, the sound of glass breaking audible even from the astronomy tower. “You absolutely despicable, underhanded—have you no sense of _decency_?”

They turn their wands on her, then, but before the stunning spells can hit two forms hurl themselves in front of her.

It’s only once they’ve collapsed to the grass that the red of their hair is visible—she and Harry can both hear Ron suck in a breath of horror, even as she feels her own stomach drop out beneath her with worry for them.

“Those idiots,” Ron chokes out. “What are they thinking—Percy told them too, not to get in Umbridge’s way. She’s going to—”

Harry puts a delicate hand on his shoulder, while Hermione speaks to reassure him. “They’ll be okay—just stunned, McGonagall will take care of them. They probably just saved her life—if she’d taken four to the chest? At her age? They’re reckless, but—incredibly brave.”

_“No one lays a _finger_ on my Gryffindors!”_ McGonagall snaps, her voice resonating across the grounds. Her rage fuels a spell so strong it knocks all four stunners and Umbridge to their backs. “_Hagrid, we’re leaving!_”

He hurries out to meet her, a bag that looks like it’s been packed for a while over his shoulder; catching sight of the twins, he moves to gently lift them both in his arms before reaching for McGonagall, who pulls a handkerchief out of her robes, whispering _“Portus”_—

And then they’re all gone.

The OWL proctor has given up attempting to corral them all at this point—Hermione has no doubt they’ll scratch the exam scores for everyone, and finds she can’t care less.

“No Dumbledore. No Hagrid. No McGonagall.” Harry’s face is as pale and worried as she’s ever seen it.

She wants to comfort him, but—“we’re so fucked,” is what comes out of her mouth.

Ron nods in horrified agreement. “Only one standing between her and us now is Remus, and he’s the one she’s been after from the beginning.”

“And,” Harry says glumly, “it’s almost the end of term—when Voldemort always makes to kill me and show his hand. We’re about to be in the most danger we have been all year. This—this isn’t a coincidence. Something is coming—Luna’s been feeling it for weeks, but this—this is it.”

“Fuck,” Hermione bites out.

(she slides down the wall to sit on the cement, head between her knees as she mourns whatever semblance of peace they'd had left.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from nightmare by halsey  
I don’t really know how I feel about this chapter, but—it felt right. I hope you think so too.  
Next chapter the ~spice~ begins (aka climactic Umbridge/DoM shebang i have been unable to sleep from thinking ab so much) so exciting stuff in the next few days!!! big plans :)


	25. your enemy whispers so you have to scream

Hermione had thought the castle was tense before, but after McGonagall leaves—

(it’s only been two days, but they’ve been the most hellish two days the current student body has ever seen at Hogwarts.)

Everyone’s distracted during their Defense exam—

(it’s hard to focus when the world is crumbling around you. when things like exams and grades feel meaningless as havoc reigns.)

But it’s also the first time they’ve _publicly _been able to perform defense spells in a year; not in a disappearing room or an underground chamber, not disguised as charm work, not looking over their shoulder for fear of expulsion.

Hermione finds herself looking around the room constantly, holding back a full-blown grin at the sight of ASA members all around the Great Hall successfully performing Defense spells.

Umbridge stands at the front of the hall, looking shocked and furious, which further adds to Hermione’s glee. The woman clearly has no idea how they’ve all managed to be proficient—she’s so deeply bothered by it that it’s probably cause for concern, if she decides to investigate later, but Hermione can’t bear to worry about that right now.

(for just this moment, she wants to believe they’ve won.)

She watches Neville perfectly shield from a stunning spell, Daphne cast a textbook _reducto_, and for some reason out of the corner of her eye she spots Harry casting a Patronus charm. It’s—

(_just this moment.)_

And then it’s the History of Magic OWL, one even _she _finds rather tedious—it sucks, that wizarding history is so fascinating and nuanced and layered, and yet the parts they test on are so incredibly far away from what really matters.

She catches Harry, Ron, and Pansy all falling asleep during it, and has to resist the urge to throw her shoes at them—she decides against it, knowing with how little they’ve paid attention in class over the years they probably might as well sleep.

It’s their last OWL, though, so when the hourglass runs out and the proctor summons all the exams to her a cheer arises among their entire year.

(Everything was against them this year, but—they made it.)

“We did it!” Harry exclaims when they make it out into the hallway.

“Does sleeping through the entire exam really count as having done it?” Hermione asks shrewdly, narrowing her eyes at them both.

Harry scoffs, knowing she’s not really mad as he plants a kiss on her cheek. “Come on, Mia, you know as well as I do we were never going to pass that one.”

“I suppose,” she relents with a wry smile.

Ron grins widely, moving to pick her up and spin her around. “Relax a bit, Hermione, we’re free!”

Harry’s laughing beside them, and from across the corridor she can see the smile in Draco’s eye.

“Alright, alright, I will if you put me down, Ronald!” she giggles despite herself as he plants her back on her feet, Harry reaching out an arm to help steady her.

There’s only an hour before dinner, so they make their way outside along with all the rest of the OWL and NEWT students who are desperate to be away from a desk, ravenous for fresh air.

It won’t last, they know it, but for one hour their entire year is at peace—sun, and grass, and just breathing. One hour of pretending Voldemort’s not back, there’s not a war on the horizon, the government and administration haven’t been overrun—_one hour_ of calm.

(just that is enough.)

The joyful mood prevails throughout the night, on to a celebratory party in the Gryffindor common room, wherein more people are drunk than Hermione has ever seen in her time at Hogwarts.

“I wish the twins were here,” she says wistfully, feeling slightly guilty for reminding Harry and Ron they’re not with them but just tipsy enough to be honest.

“Me too. Although if things are already this insane, I can only imagine how wild it would be _with _them,” Ron admits.

Harry makes a face. “Yeah, I’m sure they’re way happier wherever they are instead anyway. Perks of being of age.”

“Oh, definitely—Daphne says they’re doing better than ever. And they bought a storefront over Christmas,” Hermione reveals, before clapping a hand to her mouth. “Shit, I don’t know if they wanted anyone to know yet. I mean, they didn’t say it was a secret, but if they haven’t been telling people—”

Rolling his eyes, Ron waves away her concern. “Nah, they’ve probably just kept quiet to keep Mum from finding out before it’s ready. Besides, they like any excuse to be dramatic, and—”

He’s interrupted by an owl swooping through the window, swooping close enough to drop an envelope on his lap before flying away just as quickly.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Who the hell is writing you at eleven o’clock at night?”

Ron makes a face, looking confused as he eyes the label before moving to open the envelope. “Percy’s handwriting. But it’s weird for him to write this late—and to not use Hermes to send it.”

He hums nonsensically as he takes out the letter—only to choke on air a moment later.

“You okay?” Harry turns to check on him, only to grow actually worried at the horror on Ron’s face, freckles staunchly standing out against the pale white of his skin. “Ron, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t—” Ron gapes, mouthing at open air. “He’s—they’re—”

Harry and Hermione both move to look over both his shoulders—and their own blood runs cold.

(Percy. Being held captive by Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries.)

He wouldn’t have written, would’ve taken the torture and refused to have put anyone else in danger, but—

Tonks is with him.

(And she’s _pregnant_.)

“Oh god,” Harry whispers, looking nauseous. Even before words escape him, Hermione knows what he’s thinking—this is his fault.

(so many other people in danger so that Voldemort can get to him.)

(of course he doesn’t hesitate.)

They’re on their feet immediately—Harry clambers toward the portrait hole, but they both tug him back.

“Let me go! I have to—help—”

“Harry, you will,” Hermione soothes, “I promise, and we’ll be with you every step of the way. But if we want Percy and Tonks to have their best shot, we need to think this through before we leave, okay?”

“She’s right, mate,” Ron agrees, though he looks half a second away from sprinting out the door himself. “We have to figure out an actual way to get there—maybe we can use Remus’s floo, or—”

“Remus!” Harry exclaims, lurching forward all over again.

Hermione tugs him backward. “We’ll get Remus, but before anything we need to get ready—we all need to change into clothes we can move more easily in, you need to get the Invisibility Cloak just in case, and I’m going to grab sober up potions for all of us because we are all _so_ far from coherent enough to face Voldemort right now!”

Harry nods, allowing Ron to pull him towards their dormitory, and Hermione does exactly that, racing up to her own room. Ginny finds her hastily throwing on a jumper and jeans, jerkily shoving a few emergency medical supplies into a drawstring bag.

“What’s going on?”

Hermione hesitates—doesn’t want to be the one to tell her the thing that’ll flip her world on its axis.

(But Ginny’s one of her best friends. And it’s her family in danger, too.)

“Death Eaters are holding Percy and Tonks hostage in the Ministry.”

Ginny doesn’t flinch—her jaw locks, and she visibly braces herself without any follow-up questions. “Right behind you.”

They hurry to the common room, only beating the boys down by thirty seconds or so, Neville alongside them; Hermione gives him a nod—as much as she’d love to make him and Ginny stay at Hogwarts and not put them in any danger, they’re some of the strongest ASA members, and will be invaluable up against god knows how many Death Eaters.

(and even if they weren’t—it’s their lives, and not a choice she gets to make for them.)

(she doesn’t believe in being the reason anyone’s choices are out of their own control.)

(for obvious reasons.)

They disillusion themselves as they race into the hallway, but before they can even make it to the Charms corridor they’re all locked in a full body-bind.

Umbridge and three IS members show themselves, the headmistress looking far, far too happy for anyone’s liking.

(one of the three being Draco, face stony but eyes racing a million miles an hour, the way Hermione knows means he’s trying to find them an out.)

“Out of bed after curfew, are we?” she smirks, clapping her hands together. “I knew a caterwauling charm on the hallways after hours would pay off eventually. Let’s get you all to my office so we can chat about where exactly you were off to, yes?”

She turns her wand on Harry and Ron to levitate them herself, while the three Slytherins unfreeze and grip Hermione, Neville, and Ginny and tug them along; Draco has Hermione, of course, and as shitty as the circumstances are the warmth of him at her side calms her enough to start thinking rationally.

When there’s just enough distance between them and Crabbe, she mouths, “Remus.”

Draco nods, immediately understanding; he waits a beat for just another yard of distance between them all before whispering “_expecto patronum—_Umbridge. Emergency. _”_The silvery dragon forms, and he mutters Remus’s name, the patronus disappearing from view instantaneously.

“Keep up, Malfoy,” Goyle calls from ahead, more bold than usual at the prospect of glory, being the one to help Harry Potter finally be expelled from Hogwarts.

Inside Umbridge’s office, she double-checks that they’re all unfrozen and disarmed, and turns to them with a chilling grin.

“I’ll be generous and offer you the opportunity to voluntarily tell me where you were off to. Whoever is the first to fess up will be shown…much more leniency.” She waits a moment, eyeing them all, but no one moves to respond.

Ginny goes so far as to spit at her, unfazed when Umbridge grabs her arm in response, fingernails puncturing the skin.

“Very well, then, we’ll start with you. I’m afraid dear Professor Snape is out of veritaserum, so we’ll have to turn to some,” she licks her lips, “ alternative methods. Cornelius will understand, of course, what with you consorting with a known fugitive.” She raises her wand, eyes narrowed at Ginny. “_Cru_—”

The door slams open, Remus’s form more intimidating than ever in the doorway.

Hermione watches his nostrils flare—scenting the room for blood to make sure they’re not hurt.

“What is the meaning of this, Dolores?”

“Of course you’re in on it to, filthy pet of Albus’s that you are,” she sneers. “It’s none of your concern, werewolf. The students were out of bed after hours, and it’s within my power to decide how best to discipline them.”

Remus narrows his eyes, taking one step closer to her and enjoying the way she cowers backwards even with him a room a way. “Perhaps I would accept that if I hadn’t heard the beginnings of an Unforgivable Curse on your lips when I came in.”

Umbridge’s lip curls. “You have no proof.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Neville pipes up. “You’ve been using blood quills all year—illegal in seventy-six countries. And on a member of his house.”

Remus’s jaw twitches, and Hermione internally cringes at the lecture they’ll be getting later for keeping that detail from him all year.

“I have every right to challenge you to a duel for that, Dolores, as per every wizarding law.” He cocks an eyebrow, smiling as she scowls to hide the fear creeping into her eyes. “It would feel like vengeance, for everything you’ve done to myself and so many other oppressed groups over the years.” His eyes flash golden the way they do when Moony takes over, the nearing full moon and his own raging anger thinning the walls between them.

He stare her down for a beat before clenching his jaw. “But I won’t waste my time. I’m told there’s an emergency for us to handle—I intend to help whoever is in danger, and _you_ are nothing but a gnat in my way.”

A wordless swipe of his wand and ropes are appearing, wrapping around Umbridge’s limbs, tightening and knotting until she’s entirely incapable of motion.

“How dare you!! I am Senior Undersecretary—”

“Quite frankly I don’t give a _fuck_, Dolores. The only thing you are that matters to me is a bigot.” He tucks an errant lock of hair behind his ear. “Consider this a citizen’s arrest. You’re not receiving what you deserve, which is much worse, so count your lucky stars for that—and be grateful my husband isn’t here to turn a wand on you himself.”

Umbridge glowers, ignoring all of his words. She ooks to the three Slytherins in the room, eyes filled with a terrifying bloodthirstiness. “You three—get them! I give you the full authority of the ministry to disarm and subdue them by any means necessary.”

It’s at that moment that Draco and Hermione move simultaneously, so in sync they don’t have to discuss it as he moves to stun Crabbe and she likewise incapacitates Goyle.

Umbridge gapes, not understanding. “What—”

“Oh, fuck off you hag,” Draco bites out, before stunning her too. He’s nonplussed by the stares of the rest of the room. “What, we were all thinking it. I’ve had to spend too many hours with her this year. Someone just remember to obliviate her later. Don’t we need to leave?”

“_Yes_,” Harry says aggressively.

Hermione levels him with a look. “Do you have _any_ plans as to how we’ll get there?”

“No, because my sister is the most brilliant witch on the planet and I’m hoping she has an idea?” he wheedles.

She rolls her eyes. “Thestrals is all I can come up with, but seeing as only you would be able to see them it should be our worst case scenario.”

“Lu’s coming too, and she can see them,” he says defensively before quieting.

Remus clears his throat. “Or perhaps you should all wait here and leave it to the Order. Care to fill me in on the specifics?”

“You’re hilarious, Moony,” Harry scoffs. “He has Percy and Tonks held hostage in the Department of Mysteries. If I don’t go, we have no idea what he’ll do to them. _This_ is why me and Mia being full-fledged members is so important—we don’t get to just stay back where it’s safe. The Order should come too, but—I’m not losing time to wait for them.”

“Floo,” Draco interrupts, before the argument can do on any further, as Luna swiftly creeps into the room. “I know my father’s code to floo directly into the Ministry’s lobby for work—we can say you gave me veritaserum to get it out of me, or something to that effect.”

Harry nods. “Good idea. You should wear the cloak—you can’t be seen with us there.”

Draco shakes his head. “Too risky—the odds of me getting hit by a stray hex, or tripping someone, or them bumping into me and being pushed into the line of fire are too high.”

Hermione offers him her drawstring, and he wordlessly searches within until he finds the vial he’s looking for, downing it soundly.

Remus rubs at his temples, looking exasperated. “The hell is that?”

“Polyjuice, courteousy of the twins’ hair donations. It’s leftover from ASA meetings.”

“We don’t have any more time for talking, we need to _go_,” Harry declares. “We can leave from here, since her fireplace is the only one without the block.”

“Harry, please—”

“Moony I can’t.” His eyes are beseeching. “I love you, but we're going. I’m sorry. You and Sirius have raised me to be brave and always protect my friends—the friends that are family. This is me doing that. Please don’t hate me.”

(Hermione’s heart twinges, that even after all this time it crosses his mind that a misstep will lose him his guardian’s love.)

Before Remus can say anything else, he and Draco (now resembling Fred) move into the fireplace, spinning away almost instantaneously and leaving connection open behind them for the rest to follow.

Hermione bites her lip as she turns to the professor. “Get the Order—I’ll take care of him until you can all get there.”

Remus replies with a world weary nod and grim smile.

(Within a moment they’re all in the middle of the ministry.)

/

“This way,” Draco leads.

As much as she’s seen him in Fred and George’s skin this year, it’s disorienting here and now, when his mannerisms shine through in the stress of the moment as they race down to the Department of Mysteries.

They make it inside, coming to a standstill in a circular room of doors.

“Which way—”

One of the doors swings open silently, and they all make eye contact.

Ginny makes a face. “So do we think…”

“Definitely a trap,” Luna finishes drily, looking resigned to the futility of the situation.

“Not like we have much of a choice but to walk into it, though,” Ron says grimly. “Whatever happens, we stick together. And Harry’s the one we want—so we surround him so that the rest of us aren’t disposable to them.”

They file inward, making their way into a cavernous room filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves of smoky glass globes, one after the other.

“What is this place?” Harry whispers.

Neville sucks in a breath. “Hall of Prophecy. He’s—oh, Merlin, he must be after the one about you and him, Harry.”

“That’s why he needed you here, Potter,” Draco realizes. “Only one in the prophecy itself can lift it from its place on the shelves.”

“What—prophecy? What are you talking about?”

“They never told you?!” Neville practically chokes, wide eyed. “It’s—Gran’s always told me it was the reason he targeted you in the first place. They weren’t sure which of us it was about, which is why my parents went into hiding too, until…anyway. I don’t know the specifics.”

Hermione squeezes Harry’s hand, noting the surprise and pallor of his face at the realization.

They make their way down a side aisle before a muffled noise draws their attention, and they catch sight of Percy and Tonks’s crumpled forms on the floor at the center of the chamber.

“Percy!” Ron charges ahead, Harry right on his heels as they make their way towards them.

They rush to remove the gags from both their mouths and cast a finite on the body bind holding them in place; Percy’s jaw is set, eyes wide with visible worry, while Tonks maintains an unaffected front.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, reaching to untie their arms.

“You need to run,” Percy says breathlessly, locking eyes with Tonks. “Get out of here, now, all of you, I’ll hold them off.”

A laugh sounds from a few yards away and they all instinctively coalesce, facing the source of the noise.

“I’m afraid that’s not in the cards, Mr. Weasley, though very noble of you to offer.” Lucius Malfoy shimmers into few, and all around them further Death Eaters flicker into view. “Your parents would be proud, idiotic lions that they are.”

Hermione watches Draco’s muscles tense, the way he immediately checks his own skin to make sure the Polyjuice potion is still in effect.

(She burns with rage—the man before her is the one who’s spent so many years _crucio_’ing her boyfriend that he flinches at any sudden movement.)

(The man responsible for every dark shadow in Draco’s eyes, every horror in his mind.)

Lucius strolls to one shelf in particular, gesturing to the globes therein. “Now, Mr. Potter, hand me the prophecy, and no one needs to get hurt.”

“Oh, yeah, because I completely believe you,” Harry mutters, even as he moves to the prophecy in question. He reaches for it, removing it from its spot easily, an odd look on his face as he turns it in his hand. “It’s not as heavy as I expected.”

(Hermione can see the weight of it in his face—the realization that if what Neville said is true, this bit of glass is the reason his life has turned out the way it has.)

(this bit of glass is the reason his parents died, the reason Sirius went to Azkaban, the reason his parents’ last year was misery spent lonely in hiding, the reason he grew up in an abusive household despite so many people loving him—the reason they were all taken from him.)

“No need for commentary, give it here,” Lucius hisses.

Harry bites his lip, looking over to Hermione, whose eyes are dark with knowing.

Behind her, Tonks nods when he meets her gaze.

(This—this delicate sphere, is the weapon Voldemort’s been after for the last year.)

(If it will help him, they can’t afford to let it fall into his hands.)

Harry wants to cry, wants to beg his friends’ forgiveness for getting them all into this situation and being the reason it’s about to end so poorly.

(But he’s a member of the Order—he knows what he has to do. Can see in his sister’s eyes that she does, too.)

(it’s not a choice—he has to do the right thing, even if threatens their lives.)

(They’d never forgive him if he didn’t.)

“Everyone get ready to run when I say,” he rasps, watching Lucius’s smirk grow, thinking he’s trying to plan to evade them after handing it over.

He takes a deep breath before spiking the prophecy into the floor with all of his strength, feeling all of the breath leave his chest at the sound of the shattering glass.

The room is dead silent for a heartbeat, as Lucius’s face goes white with terror. “What have you done? You insolent boy—you’ve doomed us all!”

“_Run_!” Harry screams.

And then they’re all dueling Death Eaters, spilling into other wings of the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione wants to look around to check on everyone, but knows she can’t afford to even as she duels a still-masked Death Eater in the corridor.

“_Get behind me!”_ Tonks’s voice echoes from down the hall.

“_Dora you are _pregnant_—”_Percy begins to argue back, only for her to interrupt him.

“_Pregnant or not I am a fucking Auror and do this for a living whilst you can’t duel for shit, so get behind me or I _will_stun you!”_

Hermione returns her focus to the enemy before her, finally succeeding in landing a _Petrificus Totalus _and panting out a relieved breath.

She takes a moment to breathe—

(in that moment there’s a tingle of knowing down her spine.)

She spins around to see Draco leaping in front of her, the jet of light Lucius had aimed at her heart striking him dead center in the chest that still looks like Fred’s.

Lucius turns his wand to his son’s form unknowingly, and Hermione feels her heart rate spike.

(She can handle all kinds of pain, but she can’t handle anything happening to him.)

“No,” she gasps, hurling herself in front of his crumpled but still breathing body, in that moment filled with such a vindictive rage, firing off a laceration hex and stunner in quick succession.

Lucius falls to the ground, and Hermione turns her attention to the figure that had been standing at his side.

She fires a spell to tear down their hood, a gasp escaping her when it’s none but Narcissa beneath the cloth—

(the older woman’s gaze isn’t on her at all, though.)

(She’s staring at Draco.)

For a moment, Hermione doesn’t understand—worries the other woman is about to attack him, and solidifies her defensive position in front of him where he’s still wearing Fred’s appearance. She’s filled with panic that Draco’s mother can somehow see through Polyjuice.

But it’s not that—she follows Narcissa’s eyes to the wand beneath his outstretched hand.

(The wand she’d taken her son to Ollivander’s to buy so many years earlier.)

(The wand she’s spent so many hours watching him practice spells with, use to show her his success with charms and potions, so longing for approval and love she has always wanted nothing more than to give.)

For one of so few times in her life, Hermione finds herself speechless, mouth opening and closing as she searches for words, or a solution of some sort.

Narcissa looks up at her, and there’s something in her eyes—

(A familiar strength, and love, and understanding Hermione’s seen in her son’s eyes so, _so_ many times.)

(Of course, this is where he gets it from.)

Narcissa casts up a shade charm so the rest of the room can’t see them.

“You’ll get him to safety?” the older woman asks softly, even as her eyes scan the room around them to make sure the trick of darkness holds.

“With my life,” Hermione promises in a whisper.

(Wonders what a world would be like where this isn’t the first conversation she has with her soul mate’s mother.)

“I’m going to leave—try to discreetly alert some Ministry officials to come,” Narcissa says, straightening her stance. “I was supposed to stay home. No one knew I was here except Lucius, and he won’t question me leaving him for the sake of self-preservation.”

Her hand twitches, and somehow Hermione just knows she’s resisting the urge to stroke Draco’s hair, however Weasley it appears at the moment.

“Tell my niece the baby is fine—I cast a protective enchantment I created years ago. I had so much trouble getting pregnant, and hanging on to the baby…” her eyes grow far away and deeply sorrowful, but she shakes it off. “It is strong, so her child will be just fine. Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“I will,” Hermione agrees with a nod. “Please get yourself to safety. If anything happens to you, Draco will—” she cuts off, shaking her head at the thought.

Her eyes widen when she realizes the familiar way she’s used his name, but Narcissa doesn’t look surprised, or upset—she just nods, that same understanding exuding from her face.

It kills her to leave him in the middle of such a volatile scene; to not be able to press a kiss to his forehead. Hermione can see it in the devastation she hides.

“I love you,” Narcissa whispers to him, so softly Hermione wouldn’t know if she couldn’t see the woman’s lips moving.

And then she’s apparating away, and Hermione doesn't have time to question how she’s managed to bypass the DoM enchantments because she’s too busy levitating a shielded Draco behind her and trying to find Harry.

She makes it into the largest chamber yet, where all of her friends and the Death Eaters have now coalesced, mid battle.

Only now they’re joined by the Order, and Hermione wants to sob with relief as they all arrive—Fred and George are here, and Fleur, and Cedric, and Sirius, and Kingsley, and McGonagall and Moody and—

(with each person that arrives her heart feels just a bit lighter.)

Ginny’s hobbling, and based on the way she’s holding a very swollen ankle Hermione would guess she’s broken her fibula; Neville’s nose is bleeding, but there are several incapacitated Death Eaters on the floor around him and he’s gaining on the one he currently duels, so she assumes he’s fine as well.

Sirius’s laughter rings through the room—the kind of deep cackle that comes from the darkest parts of him, the sliver of Azkaban that sometimes leaks through, as he duels Bellatrix Lestrange, both appearing almost deranged as they fire both curses and verbal barbs back and forth.

Bellatrix is raising her wand as Sirius laughs, and Hermione feels her heart drop beneath her feet—

But before Bellatrix can open her mouth a red jet of sparks hits her in the back and she topples to the floor, McGonagall wearing a satisfied expression with her work. “Sirius Black, now is _not_ the time to exercise vendettas.”

Sirius winks, looking nonplussed as he begins taking out other Death Eaters from afar. “Sorry, Minnie—thanks for the save! Knew you still loved me.”

Spells are still flying—the Order is strong, but the Death Eaters have called in reinforcements, and if she could just revive Draco it would help but it’s all Hermione can do to try to disarm and stun and she can’t take the time to cast an _rennervate_.

She finally has a heartbeat to breathe when she feels it again, that tingle down her spine—that bone deep knowing that something is so, very wrong.

But as much as she looks around her neither she nor Draco is in imminent danger; the Order has finally gotten the upper hand, and they’re beginning to cut down Voldemort’s numbers.

She takes the free second to _rennervate_ him—as much as she’d known he was alive the whole time, the gasp of breath as he comes to calms the ache that’s been present in her heart since he’d gone quiet.

She stands at the ready while he gets his bearings, eyes scanning the room for the source of the wrongness, the icy feeling in her heart—

And then she sees it.

Harry, so focused on the Death Eater he’s dueling and the one standing behind them waiting to take over if his companion falls—

(he doesn’t notice the wand pointed at his head from behind.)

“No,” Hermione breathes, everything she holds dear flashing before her eyes.

She raises her wand just as the assailant does, launching a shield charm from across the chamber—it’s not the strongest, not from so far, and not quick enough to wholly protect him—

(but it’s enough—enough to keep him _alive_, if only barely.)

It keeps the hit from being fatal, though Harry falls to the ground—

And then she and Sirius are both sprinting across the room, slicing through anyone and everyone in their way with a fire like they haven’t had through the entire battle, Remus and Ron right behind them and covering their backs.

Luna’s yards away, the longing to be with him visible in her eyes, but someone needs to help finish the fight—

(and so she does, turning her back to Harry so she can best protect him, because what else is a soul mate for if not to defend you at your darkest?)

“_Harry_,” she rasps as she kneels beside him, hitting the floor so hard she knows her knees will be bruised for weeks.

Sirius is right there with her, likewise kneeling on the brutal concrete, scooping Harry into his arms with all the tenderness in this world.

(His lithe seeker’s build has never seemed so small.)

“We’re here, pup. You’re alright. We’ll get you to Madam Pomfrey right away,” Sirius promises, voice steady despite the worry Hermione can see in the tension of his shoulders.

“Mm—okay,” Harry mumbles, eyelids fluttering. “You and Mia will stay with me, right, Dad?”

Hermione’s heart leaps, and she can see it in Sirius’s eyes—

(the bittersweet joy. desperation and love.)

He swallows heavily, holding back tears. “Of course, pup. We’ll be right beside you till you wake up.”

Across the chamber, Hermione hears Dumbledore’s name called, and then Fudge, and within moments the Order has finished incapacitating every Death Eater in the room. There’s a bunch of noise, and yelling and whispers weave in and out of each other—

(the Ministry has finally noticed what’s going on, then.)

(she wonders if they’ll still try to claim Harry’s lying now.)

Hermione has just enough energy to notice the blond roots beginning to peek through Draco’s hair from afar. “Polyjuice is wearing off,” she whispers. “Draco has to—”

Sirius’s eyebrows pull together as he turns his attention to her, concern filling his face at the sight of how pale she is. “Kitten—”

“Fine. Just—used too much magic shielding him.” She blinks, gaze flickering in and out. “I think I might—”

(Remus is there to catch her when her world goes black.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from first burn [Hamilton]  
I rlly want to have remus call Umbridge a c*** but he drinks the respecting women juice so alas it would be too out of character  
Also finished ballad of songbirds and snakes—I actually really enjoyed it?  
Next chapter will be results//repercussions, end of year odds and ends, coming in the next couple days!!  
all my love to you all—as always, thank you for your comments and love for this story.


	26. just to seal my fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, sorry this took longer than I anticipated. Thank you for all of your lovely comments and reactions to the last chapter, they make my heart so happy to read.
> 
> also yes I realize all our faves surviving feels unrealistic but 1-I do not care and 2-we already lost them once so I feel like we’ve had enough realistic pain, and things are different enough here that it feels more realistic to not kill them
> 
> idk people will probs die later but in the meantime :)
> 
> DoM battle culmination—here ya go!

When she comes to, Draco’s hand is intertwined with hers.

“Wha—” she blinks, looking around them.

“Hey, calm,” he says softly, bringing the hand in his to his lips. “You’re okay, but you still have to take it easy for a few days.”

“But you can’t be seen with me! It’s—”

“Fine, Mia, we’re in the very back of the hospital wing and Remus has firmly warded it.”

Hermione lets out a deep breath. “Oh, that’s—that’s good. Is everyone okay? Here?”

“Everyone’s okay.” Tonks’s voice says, and Hermione finds the woman in question sitting at her other bedside, hair a soft shade of lavender. “Most of the Order is out doing damage control as we speak.”

Hermione reaches for her immediately, eyes alert. “The baby’s okay? Narcissa cast a protective charm, but—”

“The little hitchhiker is just fine,” Tonks assures her with a small smile. “Minus having me and Percy for parents, of course. Kid’s gonna need all the prayers in the world.”

Draco laughs, but Hermione’s distracted. “Harry’s okay, too?”

(Surely, they wouldn’t be sitting here cracking jokes if something had happened to her brother.)

“He’s just fine,” Sirius’s voice promises, and she turns her head just enough to see Harry asleep in the bed beside her, Sirius looking exhausted at the side of his bed closest to her. “You saved him, kitten. Although once you’re both well again we’ll be having a long talk about charging headfirst into danger and learning our magical capacitates, yeah?”

“That—sounds fair,” Hermione says.

Sirius gets up, moving slowly to press a kiss to her forehead—and she surprises herself when the motion doesn’t terrify her.

“Love you, twerp.” He tells her as he pulls away. “If anything happened to you I would find the Resurrection stone itself so I could bring you back and strangle you myself.”

(She knows what he’s doing, pairing teasing with the affection so it doesn’t send her running—it makes her scowl, but she loves him even more for it.)

(She doesn’t say it back—isn’t there yet, but nods and hugs him again; he knows.)

She falls asleep again shortly thereafter; when she wakes, she and Draco get a moment alone.

He pulls one of her hands into both of his, holding it to his lips like he’s still reminding himself that she’s there.

(that she’s alive.)

They both just look at each other for a moment, drinking one another in.

Hermione sits up straighter, clearing her throat before saying, “I don’t want to hear anything about having given you a scare after you _threw yourself in front of a curse_, Draco. What if the spell had been fatal? You could have been killed!”

Draco doesn’t bat an eye. “Better that than to live the rest of my life without you.”

Her heart twists. “And yet you think _I _could bear to do it without _you_?”

“No, but Harry needs you. You would push through for him.”

Hermione squeezes his hand tightly, forcing him to meet her gaze. He’s right, but—she can’t stand the notion. “Please do not ever, ever put me in a position to have to.”

“I won’t. I’ll be more careful in the future, I promise, Juliet,” he says softly, the nickname soothing the ache the topic has caused in her soul. “You were in danger, and he was the one wielding the wand, and I just—reacted.”

“I understand,” she nods, offering a half-hearted smile. “I’d thank you but I don’t want to encourage this behavior in the future.”

He rolls his eyes, pulling the hand of hers he clasps to his face and pressing his lips to her wrist.

“Umbridge is gone, by the way—Dumbledore was reinstated via emergency executive order right after we left the Ministry, and McGonagall and Hagrid are both back too.”

“Good,” Hermione mutters, lip curling with anger. “Although being fired isn’t enough—she deserves to be behind bars.” She yawns, mumbling, “I’m going to make sure of it.”

“If anyone could do it, it’s you, love. I’m sure Sirius would be happy to stir up the dramatics to help.”

“That’s true.” Hermione scoots over patting the empty space beside her. “Get up here.”

“You’re _injured_, Mia.”

“I’m _fine_, I was just depleted, Madam Pomfrey’s only keeping me here as a formality,” she insists, eyes pleading. “Besides, the hospital wing is cold. How can I heal without borrowing some of your body heat?”

He glares at her. “Hermione, I am not climbing into your sickbed.”

“It’s not like I’m trying to _seduce_ you,” she scowls, “good Lord, Draco.” She hesitates for a moment, and then without meeting his eyes whispers, “I’ve just been having a lot of nightmares. The potions and the magic depletion are making them—vivid.”

(his arms are the only thing that make her feel safe.)

“Oh, Mia,” he grimaces, but doesn’t bother with platitudes—just acquiesces, gently getting onto the bed and letting her curl against the familiar shape of his body.

“I met your mother,” she mumbles into his sweater.

“You did,” he nods, despite knowing her eyes are closed.

“She was kind. Although I admit the circumstances were not exactly the way I’d imagined meeting my mother-in-law.”

Draco snickers, gently rubbing her back. “Definitely a unique experience. It’ll be a fun story at parties, someday.”

She hums in agreement, though in this moment nothing’s ever felt as far away as such simple concerns as parties, when the war is so tangibly near. “Have you heard any word from her?”

“A letter—brief, though. And in code—she’s being watched.” His brow creases with concern. “Don’t worry about that now, love. Get some rest.”

(He’s exhausted, as well, having spent the night in the chair beside her bed; they’re both asleep before a full minute has passed.)

/

Harry wakes slowly.

He’s there with his eyes closed, for a while. He can hear Sirius and Remus whispering back and forth, Ron coming to visit and sounding worried out of his mind, Luna humming or reading poetry next to him.

(_“I know you can hear me,”_ she whispers, at one point in the dead of night, Sirius’s snores audible beside her. _“Don’t worry so much, Harry. You’re just healing. You’ll wake up when you’re ready.”_)

He hears Tonks cracking jokes, and Draco’s attempts to goad him into waking up—

(_“Keep it up, Potter, and Slytherin will win the cup for sure—don’t you want to get up and prove me wrong?”_)

Mia’s voice joins the fray when she wakes up, though she’s still magically, mentally, and physically drained and fades away as she falls back asleep soon after.

_Finally_ he manages to drag his eyelids open; the hospital wing is dim and quiet, and he can clearly see the full moon through the window.

(Remus would’ve had to leave, then.)

He can hear snoring, and smiles instinctively at the sight of Sirius ‘s head smushed on the hospital bed, leaning from his seat in an armchair in a way that looks incredibly uncomfortable.

His godfather looks so peaceful, he doesn’t want to wake him—

(But if Sirius knew he had been awake without telling him he would definitely be grounded, so.)

“Pads,” he whispers, voice breaking from misuse. He repeats it once more, attempting to move a hand to Sirius’s shoulder unsuccessfully, but the movement rouses the older man.

Sirius is instantly alert—the mark of a lifetime of trauma—and instantly moves to push Harry’s hair out of his face. “Harry. Thank Merlin.” He visibly relaxes at the proof that Harry’s okay, only now able to believe it despite Madam Pomfrey’s assurances. “Are you feeling alright, pup?”

Harry nods, swallowing thickly. “m’mouth’s a little dry if there’s water around, though.”

Sirius grabs a glass off the nightstand, beside a veritable mountain of cards, flowers, and boxes of chocolate.

“What’s all that?” Harry squints.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Get well soon gifts. You’re very popular.”

“Bet all of them are from the same people who’ve been calling me nuts and sending hate mail all year,” he grumbles, before gulping down the water.

“Probably. Also, all of the chocolate boxes are empty.”

Harry laughs despite himself. “Moony and Sof got to them?”

“Yep.” Sirius’s expression is fond. “She insisted her big brother would want her to have it, and as it was the day of the full moon I didn’t have the heart to disagree.”

“Don’t love chocolate all that much anyway. Or anything that sweet, really.”

(after so many years of nothing but the blandest food, often stale—his palate had never been exposed to sweets when it was forming, and now more than a little makes him sick.)

Which Sirius figured out ages ago—the reminder makes him frown. “I know.”

Harry clears his throat, moving to sit up. “I heard Mia’s voice before—she’s okay? And everyone else?”

“Just fine,” Sirius promises. “And most of the Death Eaters are in Azkaban, now.”

“That’s good.” Harry yawns, thoughts drifting a million miles away. “He’s still out there, though.”

“Yes,” Sirius admits. “But this was a victory, Harry. Don’t let the weight of the war get you down. What you did, making sure he couldn’t get the prophecy—” he swallows heavily, jaw clenching, “That was very brave, pup. Dangerous, and I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way like that, but…I’m very proud of you.”

Harry bites his lip, holding back tears of exhaustion—the tears that come from being so, so overwhelmed and unsure of oneself. “It didn’t feel brave. I—I was terrified. And my friends could’ve died, because of me.”

“Listen to me, pup. Bravery is not the absence of fear—to not be afraid when in danger is stupidity, not some lofty goal of only the most courageous. Fear is normal—fear keeps us on guard, keeps us alive in dangerous situations. I hope that you’re never _not_ afraid when your life is on the line.”

(Sirius’s expression is dark, eyes flickering sadly to Hermione—knows it’s an experience they share, one he’d give anything for her not to know.)

He turns back to Harry. “Your friends _chose_ to go with you, because this is their fight too—you didn’t drag them into anything they weren’t already planning on being in. And you and I both know if Hermione heard you say it she’d tear your head off.”

Harry grimaces. “Yeah, she would kill me a little bit.”

“Exactly.” Sirius grips his shoulders. “You are not the reason your friends could have died—you’re the reason they all survived, because _you’ve_ been teaching them defense all year. _You_ got them all to practice and be at their strongest so that they _were _ready for the fight.”

Harry nods slowly, watery eyes beginning to spill over. He hesitates for a beat before throwing his arms around Sirius tightly.

He lets his godfather bear his weight, rubbing his back gently while he cries—the Harry before Hogwarts never would’ve believed it.

(it still feels like a dream, sometimes.)

After he pulls back, Sirius gives him a pensive look he can’t read. “What?”

Sirius purses his lips, watching him carefully. “Right before you became unconscious…you called me Dad.”

Harry feels his cheeks grow warm, and he looks down, unable to meet his eyes. “Oh. I—"

Sirius motions for him to be quiet. “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. I just wanted you to know that—if you _did_ want to call me Dad, that would be okay, yeah?” He swallows—it’s nerves, Harry realizes, the kind he hasn’t seen since third year when Sirius asked if he wanted to come live with him. “Not that you have to, by any means, because I would never try to replace Prongs, and I hate that we’re here without him, but—” he presses one hand to his mouth, squeezing Harry’s shoulder with the other. “you’re my kid, now. _Mine_. I love you like I’d love any child of my own.” He blows out a deep breath.

Harry wets his lips. “I…” Scratches the back of his neck. “I know he was a good man, and I know he and my mum loved me, and all. But—you’re the only dad I’ve ever known.”

Sirius raises a hand to wipe at the tears sliding down his cheeks, before tugging him into another hug, pressing a kiss to his messy hair. “Right, then. Dad it is.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Sirius mutters, “I owe Moony five galleons.”

Harry’s not yet cleared to leave the Hospital Wing, but their friends come in the evening, while the rest of the school is at the end of term feast and no one else is around.

Pansy and Blaise are on them instantly, while Draco, Ron, and Neville look on amusedly from the chairs they’ve commandeered.

“I can’t believe you left without telling us,” Blaise scowls, darkly glaring at them all.

Pansy hops onto Hermione’s bed—not moving to hug her or offer condolences, but the other girl knows the physical proximity is her way of showing love.

“The fact that we had to hear about this through _gossip_ is unacceptable_,” _Pansy declares, arms crossed. “Did you ever consider that we might have been able to _help_? We’re in ASA too, and not to brag but Blaise and I are both damn good in a fight.”

“I am very aware of that,” Harry assures them with a smile.

(They’re scolding him, and yet it’s on his face how clearly _happy_ it makes him, having friends who care enough to show up when he’s ill, to hassle him about not having been with him during important moments.)

“There really wasn’t time to get anyone—Draco only ended up coming by luck” Hermione promises.

Ron snorts. “Bad luck, that is, seeing as it meant we had to deal with Umbridge.”

“Good riddance,” Neville says quietly, earning gasps from the rest of them.

Hermione’s eyes are wide. “Not that I don’t agree completely, Nev, but I never expected you to say something like that about a teacher.”

“Pretty boy’s got a dark streak,” Pansy says, lips curling into a smirk, voice laced with a sultry tone that would make lesser men blush down to the roots of their hair.

But Neville’s not nervous or overwhelmed by the remark—he smiles, looking more flattered than anything. “You think I’m pretty?”

Pansy blinks, stuttering. “I—well—you—”

Mercifully, Ron intercedes, before the attention and uncertainty can make her implode. “With Voldemort’s return being public knowledge now, things are going to be different. We need to be more careful than ever.”

Draco grimaces, already knowing his father’s incarceration just means someone else will be punished in his stead. “Pansy and I especially—no one send any correspondence unless we do first, and don’t follow up if we don’t reply. Even if it means months of no contact.”

They all look to Pansy as though expecting her to argue, but the shake of her head is bleak. “He’s right. Merlin only knows who will be around, what we’ll be expected to do. Everyone else whose family sided with him last time, too—half our house. It’s—” her chuckle is bitter. “We won’t be safe till this war ends.”

(And it’s—something the Gryffindors have never stopped to consider; however terrifying the conflict and the upcoming war, however sinister Order meetings get, their own homes have never been the _literal_ battleground.)

(Harry and Hermione know what it is to be unsafe in one’s own home, of course, but the thought a veritable warlord being the one to do so is—a different and unfamiliar awful.)

“We’ll get through this,” Ron insists, jaw set stubbornly. “It’ll suck. But somehow we will make this end.”

Hermione meets Harry’s eyes, knowing they’re both thinking of the horcruxes they’ve only scratched the surface of learning about—the random objects that _must_ be destroyed for this war to ever truly again.

(The connection between Harry and Voldemort that they still haven’t figured out.)

(The prophecy that will somehow shape all of this in ways they’ve yet to understand.)

“Ron’s right,” Neville agrees, clapping Draco on the shoulder encouragingly, looking as though he wishes he could physically lend his strength and love as a crutch to lean on. “And whatever else happens, we’ll have each other. Even when we can’t speak, we all carry pieces of each other in our hearts. We’ll always have this to come back to.”

They’re all quiet for a moment.

Blaise sighs. “Gin would make fun of everyone for being so serious if she were here, to try and lighten the mood. She’s going to be pissed she missed it to say bye to Grawp with Luna.”

“Eh, I’ll fill them in on the train,” Ron waves away the concern.

“She’d be right, though,” Hermione says thoughtfully. “Everything is about to be dark enough. We don’t need to spend our last hours away from it all worrying when we should be enjoying our time together before we’re apart for months.”

So they do—conversations they’ve yet to have, chess games, snacks Blaise sneaks from the kitchens. Ginny and Luna eventually join them, livening up the atmosphere even further.

They distract themselves, hold on tight to this precious camaraderie—this bond of friendship so outlandish no one would believe it if they stumbled upon them hidden in their warded corner of the Hospital Wing.

Ginny passes around a bottle of firewhiskey until Madam Pomfrey spots it and scowls at her about being more troublesome and devilish than the twins, to which the redhead responds, _“thank you! it’s an honor to achieve such a thing,”_ and earns a reluctantly bemused smile from the matron.

It’s a beautiful last hurrah, a welcome reprieve from the battle they’ve just survived—the weight the entire schoolyear has carried.

(But all the while, the knowing hangs over them.)

(This summer everything changes.)

/

He’s running on fumes—Dumbledore couldn’t know he’d been involved, of course, so he’s been claiming a migraine and holed up in the RoR to rest since Harry and Hermione departed a few mornings prior, as soon as Harry was allowed to travel.

And it’s—his father has been arrested. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to worry about what wrath his own blood will carry out.

(Yet he’s not naïve enough to believe the summer will be an idyllic one.)

(He’s not that lucky. There will be consequences—and his father’s not around to bear them.)

He steels himself as the other students begin disembarking from the train; the station is a chaotic mess, what with the recent revelations about Voldemort’s confirmed return.

Harry and Hermione had floo’ed home with Sirius and Tonks, so there’s none of the usual clamor over Harry—an honest godsend, given the circumstances and the story the media had woven.

“What the hell,” Blaise’s mutter draws his attention.

“What?”

“Your mother’s here.”

Draco’s eyes rapidly scan the platform, and sure enough, the bright white blonde of her hair is visible where she leans up against a pillar, face expressionless despite the obvious attention her presence garners.

(She’s always been the strongest person he’s ever known, and she proves it further now, unaffected by the insults and whispers and reporters all around.)

Blaise gives him a close lipped smile of support, perhaps the only person in the world who realizes how significant it is—neither of his parents has ever come themselves to pick him up, Lucius always forbidding such an action so _“positively plebian”_—there have always been servants and colleagues sent to bring him back to the Manor, conversations empty.

(Whatever else the war is about to bring Draco’s way, he’s grateful for this moment, at least.)

His mother ignores everyone around them as she hugs him swiftly when he approaches, abandoning the etiquette that defines her for the briefest of moments

He can see all the words she’s holding back in public in the set of her shoulders, the water of her eyes—the gratitude that he’s safe, the Department of Mysteries, what his father being imprisoned will mean for them in a million ways.

“I love you, little Dragon,” she says softly, smoothing a lock of hair back from his face. “Let’s go—we have some errands to run before we head to the Manor.”

Draco’s silent as she magicks his trunk away, because while he’s always happy to spend time with his mother—

(there’s something more to this, he can sense it.)

Once they’re out of King’s Cross she apparates them, but his brows pull together when they’re not in Diagon Alley. “Mother, what—”

“Not yet,” she commands, pulling him down a side street as she transfigures their robes into dress pants.

(The street—it’s muggle. They’re in the middle of a muggle city.)

She leads him into a café, where he has to do a double take—it’s a quaint little shop, with worn couches and faded paint but cheery seeming clientele and a kind-looking barista and the kind of indie music playing that makes it feel like a film.

He thinks he’s about as baffled as it’s possible for him to be until they approach the counter and the barista beams at them. “Morning, Narcissa! It’s good to see you—and this must be the son you’ve mentioned! Back from boarding school for the summer?”

His eyes are wide as saucers, but his mother smiles back and chatters with the woman for a moment in a familiar way that makes it clear she’s here often, ordering them both teas before handing over a familiar looking piece of plastic he’s only ever read about. “You have a _credit card_?” he can’t help but ask, stunned.

“Be a bit difficult not to in this day and age, wouldn’t it?” the barista chimes in, winking as she hands him his tea. His mother merely tilts her chin, indicating she’ll explain in just a moment

They make their way to a small table in the back corner, and it’s—somehow his mother seems so at _home_ here, so much more at ease in the muggle shop than he’s ever seen her.

He opens and closes his mouth, trying to figure out what to ask first, but settles on just staring at her silently.

Narcissa grimaces. “I know you have a lot of questions, but we’re going to have to talk about quite a lot in a very short period of time. The Dark Lord has…taken it upon himself to be our houseguest for the foreseeable future.”

Draco tugs at his hair, anxiety rising. “Fuck. Okay. I understand.” He lets out a deep breath. “Before we get into it, can you just—why are we here? And you—you come here? Often?”

A devilish grin lights up her face. “I do. Thirty years and no one’s figured me out—well, except your Aunt Andy when she followed me once, ages ago. But no one else would ever consider me of all people being in a muggle café to be a possibility, so the thought’s never even crossed their minds.” She smirks. “I just say I’m doing lunch with other witches in our circle, and if it’s ever brought up to them they always confirm the alibi, happy as they are for the status boost of others believing I’ve brunched with them. Honestly, Draco,” she snorts, raising an eyebrow at him. “Pansy’s told you plenty about her mother, I’m sure—you think I could stand that odious women as often as I claim to meet up with her?”

An nod of admiration from her son. “Not that I’m ever unimpressed by you, Mother, but I’ve never been more in awe.”

“Thank you, little Dragon,” she smiles fondly, with a gentle squeeze of his hand before her expression grows serious. “We need to talk about the Ministry.”

His spine straightens, and his face grows wary, unsure of where she’s going with this. “What about it? Are you mad at me for going? Because you’ve always taught me to never allow my friends into a battle alone when I have the ability to help, and—”

“I’m not mad you were there,” Narcissa promises. “I’m proud of you for standing with your friends, although I admit I find you doing so in circumstances that would have been especially dire were you found out incredibly stressful.”

“Then what—” she gives him a look and he quiets.

A small smile forms on his mother’s face—a wistful, hopeful look he can’t read until she says. “The Granger girl—she’s your soul mate?”

Draco’s hand goes to his wand instinctively at the terror, the feeling of danger the comment instills in him.

“Breathe,” his mother tells him softly, looking unbothered.

“How do you know?” Draco demands, eyes wide.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “You threw yourself in front of a curse for her, and she attempted to do the same a moment later when she worried I might turn my wand on you. And then, the way she said your name…” Brushing away a tear, her mind goes a million miles away.

(He knows she’s thinking of when she and Lucius first met—back when she thought her story could be a happy one.)

(But just because someone is your soul mate doesn’t mean they can’t hurt you, Narcissa has learned all too well.)

Narcissa clears her throat. “We still have to be quick, but—tell me about her. How you met. What she’s like. If you’re happy.”

Draco sucks in a deep breath—for a myriad of reasons, because everything tied up in Hermione always feels so incredibly beyond words, and because he’s yearned to share the other half of his heart with his mother for so long but had never thought he’d be able to.

“We became—allies, and friends shortly thereafter second year. The Chamber was open, and we were both trying to figure out the heir and the monster, and at that point I was under the assumption my soul mate was muggle, as was she, so we were drawn together, and then she was petrified…I was so relieved when she woke up, that it was just different. We became close—as close as I am with Blaise.”

His mother makes a noise of understanding under her breath; when he gives her a questioning glance, she says, “I always wondered what had changed. You’ve hated your father since you were young, of course, but when you came home after that term something about it was…_different_. Like you would never look at him the same way again; something had pushed you so much further into despising him.” Her lips purse proudly. “But he hurt your soul mate—you almost lost her. It’s a miracle you’ve managed to keep from murdering him, after that.”

“Thought about it,” Draco admits darkly.

(It’s the kind of thing he’s not proud of but his mother would never judge him for.)

He rubs at his eyes, then continues speaking. “We started seeing each other—romantically, I mean—third year. And then there was some chaos with Sirius and a time-turner and—anyway, that was when we realized that we were soul mates. And when Andy and Sirius found out about us.”

Narcissa scowls. “She’s always included so much detail about the girl in our correspondence—I assumed it was just because Hermione was like family to her, but all this time it was for my benefit as well. Sneaky bitch.”

Draco rolls his eyes at his mother’s antics. “After the war is over you can give her shit about it. She and Andy _are_ very close, Dora even more so, and Sirius is...something of an older brother, guardian fusion.”

“Guardian? Does she not live with her parents?”

His pulse spikes with anger. “No, they’re—” he takes a deep breath, fist clenched with the effort it takes not to break something, “Not in the picture anymore. Good riddance, monsters that they are.”

His mother hums. “Ah. So that’s why she’s close with Sirius.” At Draco’s confusion, she nods grimly. “Broken butterflies find each other. Trauma knows trauma.”

“Hermione always says that,” Draco smiles, the thought bittersweet. “When all of this ends—you’ll love her, Mother. She is—the most brilliant and thoughtful witch that’s ever lived. I don’t know what I’d do without her, and she’s _definitely _the only reason Harry’s still alive, several hundred times over. Bold and brash, lion that she is, but still clever and snarky enough that most days I’m convinced Pansy and Blaise like her more than they do me.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Not that I wasn’t already on board, but anyone who can crack Pansy’s shell has my utmost respect.”

“Yeah, me too,” he laughs fondly. “She’s…the circumstances are obviously anything but ideal, what with all the secrecy and sneaking about and me having to act the way I do in public, but…it’s perfect, with her.”

Narcissa smiles, though her eyes are sad—and he knows, knows she’s so glad for his happiness, so heartbroken by the obstacles in his way to peace.

“I look forward to the privilege of knowing her,” she promises. Then she sighs, her expression growing serious. “Please tell her to be on guard. The Dark Lord has taken note of her existence.”

“What?” All of the blood rushes out of Draco’s face, his heart thumping with such force he can see the movement of his chest.

(this—this is his worst nightmare come to pass.)

“Not because of you,” Narcissa assures him, squeezing his arm gently. “You’ve done very well hiding your relationship to her. But everything at the Ministry, and whatever has been happening at Hogwarts this year…it has become clear to him that she _is, _as you said, the reason Harry is still alive. It’s drawn his attention. She’s not at the forefront of his mind yet, but…I believe it’s only a matter of time until he realizes targeting her will be the boy’s undoing. Until then, he’ll merely try to compromise her to undermine him.”

Draco’s breathing is irregular, the very world around him shaking at the revelation.

(everything he’s done, everything he and Mia have sacrificed to keep Lucius from finding out about her—)

(and she’s in danger anyway.)

“Breathe, darling,” his mother commands, meeting his eyes. “She’ll be okay—the Order will take precautions for her just as they do Harry, and you’ll warn her so she can be on her guard.”

“Right. Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, hands tugging at the roots of his hair. “I just—nothing can happen to her. She’s already been through so much, and if he—” Another breath. “She’ll be okay. We’ll make sure of it.”

Narcissa nods. “Which brings me to the more pressing issue. He has established the Manor as his headquarters, and while he has not explicitly stated that you will be expected to do more in his service, it is inevitable. I suspect he will attempt to make you take the Mark before the summer ends.”

Draco’s heart twinges at the comment.

His mother’s eyes are wrought with pain at the thought, and yet she charges on, wearing a façade of calm and control like armor. “Which is why I want to send you into hiding at Andromeda’s.”

His head jerks upwards, thinking he must have misheard her. “_What?_”

“I want to send you away to where you’ll be safe from him,” she repeats—and though her voice is even, her knuckles are white. “Andy has protective enchantments already, but she’d be ready to put up a Fidelius as well for your safety, and as no one is aware of our still being in contact your location would be especially unexpected. You would have to refrain from returning to Hogwarts—it would simply make you too vulnerable to leave Tonks Manor—but you could always finish your education after the war.”

“I can’t—he would take it out on you,” Draco says, eyes wide.

“I don’t care,” Narcissa scoffs, not the least bit scared by the prospect. “You would be safe. You would be _alive_.” Her voice breaks on the last word, a brutal honesty that hits him bone deep.

“But who might die in my place? What if the person he sends after Hermione would’ve been me, but instead is Crabbe, who’s all too willing to kill her?” Draco takes a deep, shuddering breath, the lighthearted music almost taunting him in the background. “I can’t run when you and everyone else I love is at the heart of danger, and my absence could be the thing that allows you to be harmed. And—I can do more to stop him from the inside.”

He doesn’t say all the things he wishes he could—about the work he’s already done as a covert Order member, the invaluable information he’ll be able to pass along if he _is_ pulled even further into Voldemort’s circle. About how while the circumstances are awful practically speaking, but from a strategic standpoint is possibly the best thing to have happened. The best thing to give the Order—to give _Harry_—a shot.

How could he live with himself if he turned away from a potential opportunity to turn the tide of the war?

His life will be at risk, his safety and well-being—but if he doesn’t do this, and Voldemort wins, that’s how Hermione and so, so many other muggle-borns, muggles, and magical creatures will be forced to live.

(How could he not?)

“I’m sorry, Mother. But I have to do this.”

She swallows heavily, expression growing resigned. “I worried you might say that.” A shake of her head. “Very well. But you need to be very, very careful, sweetheart. You are about to enter the Colosseum—and you are playing an even more dangerous game.”

(And he’s not naïve--the odds that Voldemort will kill him are high.)

(But Draco will make sure he takes the bastard down alongside him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from cruel summer by taylor swift
> 
> Y’all I really cried writing the harry/Sirius scene
> 
> We made it through another book!!! I am sometimes overwhelmed by the sheer volume this fic has grown to but I’m so happy for it, and excited for what’s to come as we near some of the game-changing events. This means so much to me and I hold the story so close to my heart--your love for it honestly makes me cry sometimes
> 
> Next chapter will be summer//more eventful—I have some big ideas for hbp and can’t wait to see how they turn out
> 
> lots of love. thank you always.


	27. turns volatile

“What are you up to, Luna?”

The other girl smiles up at Hermione from her modified muggle laptop; Harry had braided her hair, so her face is fully visible for once, eyes popping with the matched shade of the t-shirt she’d borrowed from Harry when her own blouse felt uncomfortable.

“Working on an article for the Quibbler,” she smiles, eyes happy as they always are when she mentions her father’s publication.

Sofia peeks up at her brother’s girlfriend from where she hums while coloring, laying down on the carpet. She’s only ever half-interested in what they’re doing when Ginny’s not around—she’d quickly decided the redhead was the coolest person on the planet, and stuck to her like glue whenever she was over.

(She’s similarly infatuated with Blaise, who’s visited twice now, partially because of his status as Ginny’s soul mate and partially because of his own snarky charm and propensity for funny insults.)

“What’s this one about, Lu?” Harry asks, eyes genuinely interested from his seat at the chess board with Ron, a hand absently moving to pet Crookshanks in his lap.

“How the exploitation of centaur habitats is both morally wrong and contributing to climate change.” Luna makes a face. “I know it feels hard for things like that to matter when there’s a war on the horizon—it’s difficult to take a threat that seems so far away seriously when just surviving through to graduation feels impossible. But if something doesn’t change soon, there’ll be nothing left when we _do _survive.” She rolls her eyes. “Not that people should _need_ a self-serving reason to care about other creatures, but I’ll appeal to whatever I have to.”

Hermione gives her a bright smile. “I love you.” She sighs, tilting her head onto Luna’s shoulder. “Always, but especially when you’re fighting for what’s right. I’m so glad I have you.”

“We were destined to be friends,” Luna grins with a wink, knowing how the mention of fate will make Hermione groan, giggling when the brunette mimes retching.

Hermione fades into silence, book in front of her but thoughts far away from its contents.

She thumbs at the necklace around her throat—a simple but beautiful piece, silver with the smallest red gem at the center, one Draco’d managed to coerce Blaise into buying under the guise of a peace offering for his girlfriend’s best friend so that Hermione could wear it freely.

After a few minutes Sof grows tired of her coloring book, abandoning it to clamber over on the couch with a modified muggle toy, leaning up against Hermione until she makes room for Sofia to put her head in her lap.

(Hermione rolls her eyes at the younger girl’s attempts to bat the book out of her hands, disinclined toward reading as she is.)

“Any new word from the Order on what’s happening?” Ron asks as he takes out one of Harry’s pawns.

(He doesn’t ask if there’s any word from Draco—they’d all learned weeks ago that bringing the matter up sent Hermione into an anxious panic.)

(And given that they hadn’t heard from him since the start of summer…if there were any news on that front, she would’ve brought it up before anything else.)

Hermione lets out a weary sigh, ignoring the annoyed faces Sofia makes when the movement of her diaphragm jostles her head. “Just that he’s recruiting, and trying to cause as much damage as he can while he does to weaken us before the direct fighting begins. There’s a lot of instability in the Ministry since they’re going through the process to replace Fudge. It’s looking like it’ll be the head of the Auror Office, Scrimgeour; Tonks isn’t a huge fan of his, but she says he’s definitely not corrupt nor as big of an idiot as Fudge, so that’s something at least.”

“That’s good. Hopefully it’ll help with some of the unrest; my dad and Percy have been working around the clock—everyone is, with how many attacks there’ve been.”

Harry rubs at his eyes tiredly. “You’d think with some of their major players being arrested a month ago they’d be a bit more limited.”

Ron grimaces, like this is the part that’s been haunting him. “Exactly. The fact that they’re still this active…Voldemort’s too careful for it to be a risky move. He’s a skilled strategist, so he wouldn’t be expending all that effort to cause chaos and panic unless he can afford to do so.”

Hermione winces, eyes knowing. “You think he’s recruiting even more heavily than we know.”

“Has to be.”

“And with leadership in shambles, he can appeal to supremacists’ darkest thoughts. Make it seem acceptable for even those who think of themselves as rational, unbiased wizards.” Hermione’s expression is grim. “People will stand behind a rationale that makes them think themselves better than the rest of the world. And telling them it’s their very blood—that they’re superior because of something so inherent, that they come from magical stock and others don’t…” She shakes her head. “Things are going to get very, very bad.”

They’re all quiet for a moment, and then Ron jumps to his feet. “That’s it!” His eyes, wide with epiphany, are on Luna. “That’s the answer!”

Harry makes an awkward, closed-mouth smile. “Right, that’s not creepy at all, mate.” He sighs. “What’s the answer?”

“Last year, during ASA, you said Voldemort was half-blood—his real name was Riddle, right?”

Luna hums with understanding. “You want me to write an expose—that’s quite brilliant, Ronald.”

Hermione holds up her hands. “Wait, I’m confused. It’s not as though he’s muggle-born—why would it matter that much to everyone to know he’s a half-blood?”

“Yeah, I’m confused too,” Harry agrees, looking back and forth between his best friend and his girlfriend.

Ron blows out a breath, leaning forward while he searches for the right words. “It’s—because you both were raised by muggles, I don’t think you fully realize the way blood is perceived by purebloods.” His voice is gentle—it’s clear he knows the topic is sensitive, and doesn’t want to accidentally say the wrong thing. “Even in houses that were against Voldemort’s regime, like mine…he’s spoken of as something of a legend—a terrible person, don’t get me wrong, but—infallible, unbeatable, the champion of the sacred twenty-eight’s cause.”

“It’s true,” Luna says, making a face. “He was in power from the time our parents’ generation was young, and he’d already taken on the Lord Voldemort moniker. That’s why Susan was so shocked when you mentioned it, Harry—her family was on the frontlines of the Order, and even she had no idea he wasn’t what he claims to his followers.”

“But that’s just because it’s an easy rallying point,” Harry blinks. “I mean, we talked about it, right? He claims it’s a blood thing because then people back him, it’s a way to get them all to fight, especially when times are tough and people are especially glad to find someone to blame. What good would exposing him do?”

“It undermines the cause,” Ron explains, gesturing to the game board between them. “Think about it like chess—the king doesn’t need to believe he’s right, or even _be _right. He just needs to convince the pawns of it so that they’ll defend him, stand between him and the enemy, conquer everyone who gets his way so that he’s the only one in power. But if you can convince them he’s not worth defending, that the claims he’s made are all lies, some will realize the cause doesn’t serve them the way they thought and abandon it. The ones who truly _do_ believe in blood supremacy might turn from the thought of following a half-blood—which, problematic, obviously, but works in our favor. And then the ones who were drawn in by the idea of power and not being the ones targeted realize the fallibility of the ideology and abandon it as well. In theory, anyway.”

“Not all of them will, though,” Hermione cautions. “People are—erring, illogical, and often self-serving, especially when we have such a deep and blind allegiance to a person or thing. For a lot of them—especially the ones who supported him in the last war—to acknowledge Voldemort’s illegitimacy means confronting their own part in aiding and enabling him, and acknowledging that they’ve been a part of something horrible. Many will come up with excuses to deny the truth and buckle down twice as strong on their beliefs to avoid the cognitive dissonance of realizing they’re not the good they believe themselves to be.”

“Still, even if it just keeps him from recruiting any further, it could make a difference,” Luna muses softly. “I’ll do it.”

Hermione’s frown is worried, and Harry looks likewise alarmed. “Lu, that would be so dangerous—you’d be making yourself a target. He wouldn’t just let it go—he would come after you.”

Luna rolls her eyes, looking unbothered. “Babe, I’m the Chosen One’s soul mate—he was always going to come after me eventually. And I can’t let fear stop me from doing my part. This is what I can do to help, at least a little bit.”

Harry turns to Hermione, beseeching her to talk the other girl out of it, but she grimaces at him. “Sorry, Harry, but as much as I want her to be safe…she’s right. This could be a game changer. And I can’t—Draco is in the middle of the lion’s den right now, and we’ll never know if something happens until it’s too late, and he and Pansy will only continue being in so much danger…” She swallows thickly. “We have to do whatever is in our power to help end this war. You know that as well as I do—if it were you on the line you wouldn’t hesitate.”

(It’s brutally honest—lets them all see through the cracks of her act, how truly terrified she is for Draco however much she assures them all she’s fine.)

Luna grips her shoulder in thanks, even as Harry bites his lip, looking betrayed.

Sofia pads over to him at the sound of his distress, holding up her arms for him to pick her up; he’s calmer as she hugs him, soothing both of their touch-starved souls, Harry wholly focused on her well-being the way he always is with Hermione.

“It’ll take me a bit—I’ll need to find some concrete sources, find out if there’s anything else I need to include. I should take a trip to Little Hangleton…” Luna trails off, fingers already typing away as she begins looking up more information, thoughts miles past the conversation.

Ron meets Harry’s eyes with a grimace. “Hey. She’ll be okay. You’re soul mate’s a badass—in a kind of nerdy way, mind you, but badass all the same.”

They return to their game, Harry still on edge but distracted by their conversation.

(Hermione’s mind is a million miles away, with a boy in a manor curled in the fetal position, breathing heavy in between curses.)

/

They’ve just wrapped up an Order meeting, Cedric and Fleur staying behind along with the Weasleys for a round of drinks.

Fred’s grumpy because Oliver is out of the country for work all week, while George and Cedric are both a bit down and perpetually anxious as comes with the territory of having a Slytherin soul mate at the moment.

(Hermione wishes she could tell them she understands—wishes they could share their fears, commiserate over the horrible way it feels so out of their control.)

“Fleur that is _the _least appealing thing I’ve ever heard,” Ginny scowls at her future sister-in-law, where the blonde sits half on Bill’s lap, expression pleading. “You know I hate shopping.”

“Yes, but I simply _must_ get new cloze for Order business now that things are more public,” Fleur insists. “And I ‘ate shopping alone—besides, you ‘ave phenomenal style, I want your input. I’ll buy you lunch! And we can go to the Quidditch supply store you love. Cedric, Fred, George you care about Quidditch things—vat is a new Quidditch gadget I can buy her to convince her to come?”

“Oh there’s this fantastic new broom polish—"

“Or the practice Quaffle that will randomly fly away from you to mimic other players’ attempts to steal it—"

“Traitors! That’s just—rude,” Ginny cries, scowling at her brothers. She narrows her eyes at Fleur, but sighs nonetheless, knowing she’s definitely going now. “Ugh. Fine. But only because I love you. I’m going to complain the whole time.”

“I expected nothing less,” Fleur beams at her, looking delighted at the prospect. She catches Hermione sticking her tongue out at Ginny and smirks. “You, too, ‘Ermione. I find I need a third set of eyes.”

“But—”

“Non, it’s ‘appening. Cheer up, we’ll go to ze bookstore too.” Fleur smiles wickedly when Hermione groans, all too pleased with herself.

“I’ll tag along,” Tonks says. “I’ve been avoiding buying actual maternity clothes, but I haven’t been able to button my jeans for about a month now, so I think I have to cave.”

Fleur claps her hands together. “A real girls’ day, zen. Perfect.”

Clearing his throat, Percy gets to his feet; Tonks, Harry, and Hermione all roll their eyes, knowing where this is going.

He takes a deep breath before speaking. “Dora, you are—the light of my life. I’ve always been a bit too uptight, terrified of getting it wrong. Being with you reminds me to actually _live—_reminds me of everything good in this world. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to start a family with you.”

He drops down to one knee, making the rest of his family gasp excitedly even as Hermione presses her face into Harry’s shoulder to keep them from hearing her laughter.

“Please do me the honor of becoming your husband,” Percy says, holding out a simple but beautiful ring, topped by two jade gems, “I can imagine nothing better to be in this world.”

The Weasleys all hold their breath; meanwhile, Tonks raises her eyebrows at Percy. “Did you really think that would work?”

Harry and Hermione can’t hold it in anymore, both bursting out laughing.

Meanwhile, Percy sighs, slipping the ring back into his pocket and returning to his seat beside her. “No, but I figured it was worth a shot.”

Ron’s expression is baffled. “What in the bloody hell?”

“I give that one a seven out of ten,” Harry comments, still snickering under his breath.

Hermione nods, adding, “Yeah, seven point five from me.”

Percy huffs. “What are you taking off so many points for? That was definitely better than the second time, and you both gave that one an eight.”

“Yeah but you called her Dora,” Hermione reminds him, tutting teasingly. “Plus, you talked a lot about how great _she_ is—which yes, she is, you absolutely should—but you didn’t mention all the things _you’re _going to do for _her_. Last time you promised to be her humble servant till death—you’ve set a precedent.”

“Of course I have,” he rolls his eyes. “I’ll be sure to keep all of that in mind for the next one.”

George raises his hand. “Hi, what in Merlin’s name just happened?”

“I proposed. For the fifth time,” Percy explains, snorting as Tonks tucks herself into his chest. “After the second, Harry and Hermione took to rating my attempts and providing their feedback.”

Bill’s eyebrows pull together as he turns to Tonks. “So you said no to his proposal. But you’re _not _broken up…but you don’t want to marry him?”

“Oh, I totally want to marry him,” Tonks assures him, hair turning pink at the thought, an occurrence which makes Percy grin. “But we’re not getting married before the parasite gets here.”

“Would you _please_ stop calling our baby names reminiscent of insects?” Percy begs, tilting his forehead against hers.

“Never,” she winks cheekily. “They know I mean it affectionately—don’t you, hitchhiker?” she croons to the swell of her stomach. “I think I’m allowed to call someone a parasite while I let them use my ribs as a ladder. Did I mention I’m currently receiving hits to the kidney?”

Percy gives her a look. “Just tell me what kind of ice cream you want today, already.”

“The muggle strawberry cheesecake,” she tells him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “My knight in shining armor.”

“Still confused about the proposal!” George exclaims, gaze flickering between the two. “Why don’t you want to get married before the baby’s born?”

Rolling her eyes, Tonks gestures emphatically. “_Because_, then everyone will think we’re just getting married so lovebug’s not born out of wedlock, not because we actually want to be together. I want to make sure it’s clear to the world that I am _happy _to be pregnant out of the realm of propriety.”

“She’s ridiculous,” Percy says, though his gaze smolders. “It’s also a little bit because she wants the world to know she’s marrying me because we’re in love, as much as she doesn’t want to admit to such a cheesy rationale.”

“Never!”

“You’re straight-up insane,” her soul mate mutters.

“Only thing straight about me,” Tonks grins in reply, laughing when Fred reaches to high-five her, Harry and Cedric likewise cracking up.

“By the way,” Fred says, looking to George as they both grow visibly excited, “Our grand opening for the shop will be one month from today. Whoever doesn’t come will find nosebleed nougats in their food for the next year.”

Cedric raises an eyebrow. “Am I exempt as I’m not family?”

Harry snorts. “Bet. You’re as good as.”

“He’s right,” George agrees. “Close as Theo and Daph are, you’re stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

(He’s smiling, but Hermione can see the familiar tension behind it—cracking jokes like the worry isn’t killing him inside.)

(Cedric does too—and gives her an odd look when he catches her squeezing her eyes shut at the comment.)

“You need any help—running the register, or anything?” Ron asks tentatively. “I’m trying to get some extra cash so I’m not broke by the time we graduate.”

Fred shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

“He just wants an employee discount,” Bill teases, laughing when Ron shoves at his shoulder.

“I mean, yeah, but also we don’t all make big bucks working for the bank.”

Ginny gets to her feet before they can start teasing each other in earnest, stretching with a yawn. She sets down the blue gel pen she’s been using to speak to Blaise, who’s sequestered at his wealthy family’s place for the month, the bright blue ink showing up better against the charcoal shade of her soul mate’s skin. “We ready to head out? I am _tired_ and Mum is still insisting we have to de-gnome in the morning, which you _know_ means she’ll be harassing us to get up when the sun’s barely risen.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ron moans.

“We should be leaving, too,” Bill agrees, helping Fleur to her feet. “I have an early day at work, and this one has a host of meetings with ministry officials about the wolfsbane bill she’s proposed.”

They all make their way through the floo, until only Hermione, Harry, Percy, and Tonks are left, everyone but Tonks finishing off their butterbeers with a pleasant buzz.

Remus peeks his head into the room. “Are all the guests gone?”

Tonks rolls her eyes. “Yes, you ridiculous introvert, it’s safe now. Come sit.”

He beams, pressing a kiss to her hair as he makes his way to an open seat, Sirius right behind him, just having tucked Sofia in. They sprawl in their seats at the table and Remus starts eating the chocolate cake on his plate.

Harry frowns. “I want cake.”

“You already had ice cream today,” Sirius rolls his eyes at him. “Surely you don’t need even more sugar.”

“He had ice cream too, Dad! And we just had a meeting about how a madman is trying to kill me, _again_—I feel like I deserve as much dessert as I want.”

Sirius glares at Remus. “Your influence. This is—all you.”

Remus laughs drily, before _accio_’ing Harry his own slice of cake, which Harry then pushes between he and Hermione to share.

(_Ridiculous, _she mouths to her brother, even as she takes a bite. _You’re ridiculous._)

“_So_,” Tonks says, hands moving to her ballooning stomach. “The freeloader will be here in just a couple months.” She smirks at Percy’s pained face. “Is that not better than parasite?”

He gives her a look but waves for her to keep talking.

She reaches for Remus’s hand. “We want to know if you’ll be the godfather.”

Hermione gasps, ecstatic for him as she looks to Harry, but he’s grinning like he already knew this was coming.

Remus blinks in shock, before coughing in a way they all know to mean he’s trying to avoid crying. “I—what? Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Tonks scoffs, rolling her eyes even as she squeezes his hand gently. “You’re family, but—you’re also my best friend. And I know that you’ll love the little leech unconditionally—I’ve already seen it in your love for Harry and Sofia, the easy way you’re there for Hermione. If something were to happen to Percy and I—” she shakes her head. “The _only_ way I could handle not being there for my kid is if I knew they’d have you. Because then I could trust that they would be happy and healthy and loved.”

Remus presses a hand to his mouth, and Tonks scowls. “Don’t you dare get emotional on me.”

“You're the one who said a bunch of nice things!”

“Okay, well, I take it all back you boring old man!”

Remus lets out a laugh, but then grows somber. “I don’t want to take the place of one of Percy’s brothers, if you’d prefer, or Harry, if you’d rather someone young—”

“Oh my _god_, you ridiculous werewolf,” Tonks groans as she shakes her head at him. “I was _teasing_ you. Wizards live to be five times the age you are now, you are _not_ old. Second of all, Percy’s brothers don’t care—and honestly, the only one of them responsible enough is Bill, but he and Fleur want kids of their own soonish. Third of all, the last thing _anyone_ here wants is Harry having more responsibility.”

“It’s true,” Harry agrees. “I do _not _need one more person dependent on me. The thought is terrifying, honestly—I’d probably drop the baby on its head once a day.”

Percy puts his head in his hands, “Not to mention that referring to them as an _it_ is a red flag to begin with. Merlin, you people.” He sighs, but looks up at Remus. “Even if none of that were true, you would still be our first choice. We can’t imagine anyone better.”

“Please say yes,” Tonks wheedles.

“Please,” Percy pleads in tandem. “This one is bound to get herself killed doing something batshit crazy, and I’ll go down trying to stop her. It would greatly reassure me to know when that happens there’s _someone_ responsible to look after our kid.”

Sirius puts an arm around his husband encouragingly, and Remus smiles despite himself. “I—well, alright, then. It would be an honor.”

Tonks cheers, and Harry moves to hug his uncle whilst Sirius mutters something about there not being a good enough wolf-father pun.

So Hermione’s blindsided when Percy turns to her and says, “You’ll be godmother?”

She gapes, mouth opening and closing as she tries to form words. “I—me?”

“Obviously,” Tonks says. “You’re practically a Weasley, what with how close you are to Ginny, Ron, and the twins, and Fleur, and Arthur, and—”

Percy snorts, “I think she gets it, sweetheart.” He smiles at Hermione. “It’s true, though—you’re family on both sides, and you’ve already been half-raising this one for years,” he says , tilting his head towards Harry, who nods in agreement.

“_And,_” Tonks adds, looking thrilled. “Obviously I don’t _want_ me, Percy, and Remus to all die, but can you just _imagine _how many blood supremacists would roll over in their graves if a muggle-born and her Malfoy-Black soul mate were raising the child of a half-blood Black and a blood-traitor? Like, really, imagine it. Even if you weren’t already the perfect pick, I’d beg you to do it for that alone.” Her grin is devilishly infectious, and Hermione finds herself smiling.

“I mean—yes, of course I will,” she stutters, cheeks flushed. “Not because of that, though. That’s just the icing on the cake.”

“You’re gonna be great, Mia,” Harry promises.

“Poor kid,” Sirius sighs sadly. “The two most stick-in-the-mud godparents in the entire universe. So many books for birthday presents.”

“Pads, you are _married_ to me.”

“Yes, which is why I am the most qualified to insist that you’re lame.”

Remus raises a shrewd eyebrow. “You and your hand enjoy each other later if I’m so lame, then.”

“Oh, god, don’t talk about sex while I’m eating,” Harry whines.

Percy mimes gagging. “I’m gonna have to agree with Harry on this one—I think Sirius and Andromeda are rubbing off on you, Remus.”

“_Don’t!_” Hermione exclaims when Sirius opens his mouth at the comment. She clears her throat. “Also, I thought we should discuss how to proceed with destroying the horcruxes. Or at last brainstorming what and where they might be.”

“I mean we know the snake and locket for sure, both of which need to be destroyed,” Harry says. “Both of those are Slytherin-y—and the diary was also from his time _in _Slytherin and talked about opening Slytherin’s chamber. Maybe the rest are similarly themed?”

Remus purses his lips. “Perhaps, although given how intelligent he is it seems too predictable.”

“Although he did think they’d never be discovered,” Tonks points out. “No need to make the objects themselves un-guessable when you think no one could ever find them, or even know about their existence.”

“We still need to decide how we want to go about destroying them.” Sirius pulls his hair into a bun. “There’s merit to waiting till we have them all, just in case he can sense it. But then there’s always the possibility that he somehow gets them back, or something happens to us and no one else can destroy them in time.”

“I have a friend who’s an Unspeakable,” Percy offers, hand instinctively going to his unborn child at the reminder of the place they’d been in so much danger recently. “I can find out what information they have on Horcruxes—perhaps she knows if the maker can detect their destruction.”

Sirius holds up a hand. “Which begs the question of _how_ we’ll actually destroy them, being that the only means at our disposal currently is fiendfyre and that’s not at all stable or worth the risk if we can avoid it.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaims, pulling out her wand. “I’d nearly forgotten. I can’t believe I—_accio_ backpack!”

The bag in question flies to her, and she hushes their questions as she rummages around through it.

“What on earth can you possibly be looking for in such a small bag?” Harry questions, only for Hermione to shush him again.

Remus’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Did you cast an undetectable extension charm on that?”

Hermione pauses in her search, looking up to give him a bashful smile. “I may have.”

“That’s _very_ impressive, Hermione,” he says, looking both shocked and proud. “I don’t even teach them in my NEWT course—not even for extra credit.”

She blushes. “Thank you. I—it seemed useful to know, so I practiced until I got it.” She returns her attention to the bag, at last tugging out a messenger bag from within. “Here. Be careful.”

Hermione passes the bag to Harry, who peeks inside and gasps with a delighted chuckle. “You didn’t! Oh, god, I love you. I can’t believe I never even thought about doing that. Wow. I am an idiot.”

“What is it?” Sirius asks expectantly.

“Well, we were already meeting there, and I knew the need would eventually rise and we didn’t know when so I figured I should get some to keep on hand so we could all be prepared—”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “What, Hermione?”

“Basilisk fangs,” his son tells him with a grin. “She’s taken basilisk fangs from the Chamber of Secrets.”

/

Hermione jerks awake, unsure as to why she’s so abruptly come to—she wasn’t having a nightmare, and there are no noises or lights around her.

She reaches for the water on her nightstand, and spots it, then—the ink scrawling across her arm makes her breath catch.

_Have five or ten minutes max. I’m alive. I love you._

She can’t hold back the sob that escapes her reading it; has spent the whole summer thus far telling herself she’d know somehow if Draco died—would feel it in her bones.

(She hadn’t realized how much she didn’t believe it until the relief that _he’s **alive** _floods through every cell of her body.)

_Are you okay? Your mother?_

_As much as we can be, _he writes back. A pause—she knows him well enough to know he’s contemplating whether or not to tell her something.

_Say it_, she writes hurriedly. _Whatever it is, it’s okay._

His handwriting is messy as it forms beneath—from his hand shaking as he writes.

_He’s going to Mark me. That’s why I have a few minutes alone—to prepare for the ceremony._

Hermione’s heart breaks—shatters, knowing how desperately he’s always wanted to avoid this. Hating that he’s alone.

(That this is only the beginning.)

Before she can reply, he writes, _I’m so sorry. I hate it will be on your skin because of me. If there were any way I could—_

_Hey, **no**, _she scrambles to interrupt him_. Don’t worry about me. And don’t wish for a way to make this go away—the reason we’ll both have the Mark is the same one that’s allowed us to speak since we were ten.  
And the reason you’re getting it is because you’re brave and good enough to bear such awful circumstances for the sake of what’s right. Draco, I am—I am so lucky to be your soul mate. So proud. And this Mark is just one part of that._

_I don’t want you to have to pay the price of my choices, Juliet._

She huffs out a breath, trying to ignore the tears sliding down her cheeks. _You have been there through all of my darkness. All of my baggage and trauma and pain, you help me carry every single day. The Mark is—my turn to carry your pain. I bear it with you—I will _gladly _bear it with you for the rest of our lives._

_I love you, _Draco writes, grip so forceful the letters are thicker than the rest of the conversation has been. _I have to go. It’s time. Don’t do anything stupidly Gryffindor._

Hermione chokes back cries, grateful he can’t see her face. _I love you too. We all miss you. Don’t let it get to you, okay Romeo? You’re doing what you have to do to survive._

She watches as everything from his end disappears as he siphons his skin clean—she does the same.

She grabs extra blankets in an attempt to distract herself; lays them one on top of the other, pretends like she’s not checking the skin of her forearm every five seconds.

Crawling underneath the pile, she forces herself to take several deep breaths, letting the pressure of the blankets’ weight soothe her.

(A moment later, ink so black it’s visible even in the dark of her room appears all at once across her skin as her soul mate’s fate is decided.)

(it’s only the beginning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from moral of the story [specifically the niall horan edition]
> 
> Next chapter will be ~spicy~-ish, and will actually have draco (poor bby) so expect that in a few days
> 
> take care of yourselves, y’all
> 
> much love, always


	28. some days you just get by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****TW mentions of self-harm/suicide
> 
> also friendly reminder draco is aged up a year [for the sake of the prologue//them getting their soul mate abilities the same season] so plz don’t yell at me when this mentions that he’s now 17

Draco’s home life has always been a bit hellish, but this is—an entirely other kind of horror show.

Voldemort and merlin knows how many Death Eaters are around at any given harder; the Dark Lord had commandeered the master suite, of course, but Draco’s yet to know of the man even sleeping.

He’s been crucio’d, hexed, beaten, and cursed more times than he can count, but that part he’d expected.

(His mother’s alive, though, and Hermione’s safe, and that’s—really all that matters.)

There are bright spots, some days, but they’re bittersweet. Sometimes Pansy’s over with her father, which is a light in the darkness, but Draco feels guilty for being grateful for her presence—knows she’s better off anywhere but here, where her occasional public affiliation with other houses has earned her more than one round of torture.

Every waking moment is spent walking on eggshells, never knowing what pain might be next—which in all honesty wouldn’t be much of a difference from living with Lucius, but now the stakes are higher, with so many more potential perpetrators around every corner.

Sometimes he’s ordered to join older Death Eaters on missions, all of which are awful and gruesome and occur solely to cause damage and continue to sow fear and discord. He’s not the only new recruit, by far, though many of the others come from bloodlines who have yet to “prove their allegiance” and are thus expected to execute more of the chaos.

(He learned early on to block it all out—dissociate like he always has on the other end of his father’s wand, unfeeling and numb to keep from falling apart.)

It all blurs together, the days nothing and everything all at once as he watches the war’s gears churn. He can’t differentiate each from the next; it’s the same people, same masks, same harm caused and feeling his soul darken, every day so similar it feels like a routine.

Until one day—something different.

“The Dark Lord wants you in the dining room,” Fenir Greyback snarls from the doorway of the library—one of the members Draco is most wary of, and perhaps the only one currently in worse favor than the Malfoys.

Draco gets to his feet immediately, though he keeps his back to the wall and the volatile man within his sights. “What for?”

“Like I give a fuck.”

(in actuality, the werewolf probably doesn’t know, is angry at the reminder of how little respect he’s shown, especially coming from a seventeen year old.)

They’re silent the rest of the walk to where Voldemort presides, seated in a modified armchair at the head of the table, Nagini curled around the seat’s back.

Draco eyes the snake in question—he’d noted early on that the megalomaniac keeps her oddly close, and has been slowly attempting to endear himself to the creature, as much as such a thing is possible.

Voldemort lifts his gaze to Draco’s own, the entire room silent. “You’ve just come of age, Malfoy, correct?”

Confused, Draco hurries to nod. “Yes, my Lord.”

“I’ve decided upon the task that will serve as your penance for your father’s failure at the Ministry last spring.” His lips curve upward, distorting the slits of his nostrils, red eyes standing out against the pallor of his skin. “I find myself growing tired of Albus Dumbledore’s existence. So end it.”

If Draco didn’t have years of experience hiding his emotions, he wouldn’t be able to restrain expressing the shock he feels.

(As much as he hates Dumbledore, to attempt his assassination is one of the boldest actions Voldemort has ever taken—one that will unequivocally rock the wizarding world.)

It’ll also force every neutral party to fix a side—and without the champion of the light at the helm, many will defer to Voldemort to avoid conflict and threat.

(It’s genius, really—the perfect way to ensure his currently swelling numbers don’t slow.)

“I—I’m to kill Dumbledore, sir?” Draco repeats, clarifying, trying not to show how bone deep the statement is shaking him. “Are there any—parameters, or specific expectations regarding how I go about it?”

(He’d like to ask how the hell he’s supposed to accomplish such a thing, what help will be provided—but he knows better than to expect any.)

It’s a good thing his Occlumency shields are up, as always, as he processes what this means, Voldemort’s asking him to kill the strongest and most capable wizard currently alive. Something Voldemort himself has never been able to do—he can’t possibly expect a teenage boy to succeed at such a thing.

(He wants Draco dead, then.)

Draco steels himself, blinking and maintaining his unaffected demeanor like his life hasn’t just been declared forfeit by the greatest dark wizard in history.

“It’s to be done by the end of this school year—I don’t care how you do it. I don’t want to hear about it until it’s done. And I don’t want excuses.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Draco bows his head in deference. “I will not disappoint you.”

Voldemort says nothing else, stroking Nagini and clearly waiting for him to leave the room, so he diligently makes his way back to the library.

He braces his arms on the edge of the table for a moment, trying to figure out how he can possibly figure out the right way to handle his predicament.

(and how to prepare Hermione for his death.)

/

Hermione doesn’t tell them all—doesn’t know how she would even go about it to begin with, and beyond that it would compromise the situation.

(So she just—shoves down the ache in her chest, pretends nothing has changed.)

She just—takes to wearing long sleeves, with a glamour beneath them just in case that she applies to her skin first thing every morning.

One afternoon, she spends hours in the wizarding library archives, trying to learn as much as she can about Voldemort’s rise to power and whatever information there _is _about Death Eater practices and history.

She has to choke back tears when she comes across mentions of an initiation rite—

(wonders how Draco will ever be able to be whole again.)

They hear word through Blaise, whose family is powerful enough to be left alone despite their neutrality; he sees both Draco and Pansy at several formal sacred twenty-eight events—parties only the most pure of the purebloods are invited to, so they’re not able to truly talk, of course.

He tells Ginny they don’t look well—both have lost weight, bags beneath their eyes dark.

(But they’re _alive_—the reminder is the only solace Hermione can find.)

She tries to find distractions; reads a busload of books, watches Winky do a fashion show of all the new clothes she’s made for herself over the last couple months, spends hours watching ridiculous muggle sci-fi television with Harry and Sofia.

Harry’s on edge too, as Luna works on her article; knowing as soon as it’s released there will be a target on her back, pseudonym or no.

She’s taking every precaution—using Polyjuice when she goes to Little Hangling and the orphanage, only going through Ministry files when no one else is around and under the Invisibility cloak, telling no one outside their immediate circle what she’s planning or that she’ll be the one to write it.

(But Harry’s still certain Riddle will manage to figure it out regardless once it’s published—will come after his soul mate with a vengeance more deadly than cyanide.)

The dads, Tonks, and the Weasleys try to cheer them up, of course, remind them things might not be as dire as they’re imagining.

(But it’s hard to believe—hard to care about anything else, when your soulmate’s the one on the line.)

McGonagall checks in under the guise of Order business and asking for any new information from Draco, but Hermione knows it’s really so the older woman can see that she’s okay, can try to remind her that war will end eventually—that what Draco’s doing may very well be what allows them to win.

(She keeps telling Hermione to reach out if she needs anything, to try and relax—it’s futile.)

Harry’s been watching her, Hermione knows—is unsure of when he’ll confront her about whatever it is he’s worried about.

It all comes to a head when they’re watching a movie one night; Sofia squeezes Hermione’s wrist during a jump scare and she instinctively goes stony and pulls backward at the proximity of her little sister’s hand to the pseudo Dark Mark.

A moment later, Harry’s grabbing her hand and tugging her along, pulling her into his room.

“Harry, what—”

“Don’t,” he makes a face before narrowing his gaze at her. “You’ve been wearing nothing but long sleeves for weeks now, and just now, when Sofia…” he rubs a hand over his jaw. “Are you—” closes his eyes, deep breath, reopens. “Have you been cutting?” He looks at her forearm meaningfully.

Hermione’s heart wrenches. “No, Harry, I—” she swallows heavily, gripping his hands with her own. “I promise.”

Harry nods slowly, looking pale. “Okay. I just ask because—I know you’re dealing with a lot right now, on top of everything you’ve already been through, and I—I _have_ before.” He can’t meet her eyes as he offers the admission. “But—not for a while, and definitely not now. I—it just—helped, when everything felt like too much, like it might be easier to just—”

“It’s okay,” Hermione promises in a whisper, shaky hands squeezing his. “I understand. I hate that—that you felt like that was your only option, but—I’m just glad you’re still here. And I could never judge you for whatever you had to do to get through.”

Harry gives her an anxious, tight smile of thanks.

She throws her arms around him, trembling with the painful newfound knowledge between them. “I love you, Harry.”

“Love you too,” he promises in a whisper; exhales, like telling her is a weight off his chest, but one he’s unsure of how to proceed without.

After a moment, he pulls back to look at her. “Mia, what is it then? Is it—" he clenches his jaw, “are you hiding—bruises? Is someone hurting you?” Harry’s fists clench, and he closes his eyes. “I love my dads, and Aunt Andy and Tonks and Percy, but if one of them is—I promise I’ll believe you.” His pained expression makes it clear just how much it’s killing him to acknowledge the possibility—but he’s willing to, for her.

(Because he knows; as much as he would never think them capable of hurting anyone, he knows better—knows a monster doesn’t show that side of themselves to anyone else.)

Hermione blinks back tears, then, overwhelmed with love for her brother—his never-ending faith in her, his loyalty however painful the price. “No—god, no, Harry, they haven’t done anything of the sort. No one is hurting me. But—thank you.”

(She doesn’t have the words to convey what it means to her, after so many years of darkness and family being vehicles of her own suffering; to know that Harry went through so much before finding this family, but if they harmed her he’d turn away in an instant—)

“Then what…” Harry takes a deep breath, trying to read the look behind her eyes. “Talk to me, Mia.”

She takes a deep breath before rolling up her sleeve, not meeting his gaze as she turns it to show him where the image of the Dark Mark is burned into her skin.

Harry gasps, fingers gentle as he reaches for her arm. “Oh, _Mia_. And god, Draco…”

“Yeah,” she says, jaw clenched. “So, that’s been fun.”

“Damn. You just _cannot _catch a break.”

She lets out a brief laugh, leaning her head onto his shoulder. “You’re telling me.”

/

It’s nearing the summer’s end when Dumbledore pulls Harry aside after an Order meeting; Hermione follows with narrowed eyes, not trusting the man alone with her brother for a moment.

His hand is injured—corrupted beyond anything Hermione’s ever seen, and she’d found herself spending the entire meeting running through the various curses and poisons that could possibly cause such decisive damage.

(She remains clueless—makes a mental note to broach the topic with Sirius and Remus, whose knowledge of dark magic is much more extensive than her own.)

“I trust you’re excited for the new term to begin,” the old man says, eyes crinkling in a smile that has all the markers of being genuine, though something about it makes both teenagers distrustful.

(Hermione has to bite back an acerbic remark about whether or not they’ll be faced with mortal danger on school grounds this term; as much as she hates Dumbledore, she can’t risk so directly alienating him.)

(The distaste of a man in power is too powerful to risk—his wrath and humiliation the strongest weapon in the world.)

“Of course, Professor,” Harry says quickly, likely knowing given time to think about it further Hermione will cave and give him a piece of her mind.

And it’s—funny, how for so many years Harry _had _so desperately anticipated the school year starting; even in muggle schooling, the school day providing a welcome reprieve from the hellscape of the Dursleys’ home. He still does to some extent, of course; likes learning more magic, and being around friends, and being in the first place he ever felt safe.

But it’s not his saving grace anymore; even as he’s excited to return he’s saddened by the prospect of leaving home, and his parents, being so perpetually surrounded by love and affection and _safety_.

“I was hoping I might ask a favor of you, Harry,” Dumbledore tells him, inflecting his tone to make the prospect seem intriguing. “I once again find myself one teacher short. I have a wonderful individual in mind, one who retired some years ago but I believe may be enticed to return. Your presence would be incredibly helpful in doing so.”

At this, Hermione can’t stop herself, moving her body slightly in front of Harry’s protectively. “You want to _use_ Harry for his fame? Like he’s not even a person?”

“Mia—”

“No, Harry, I’m glad she cares so deeply for you. There is nothing so powerful as love.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle, as though saying this negates the fact that he wants to wave Harry around like a trophy. “I can appreciate your concern, Miss Granger. But in this particular scenario, it is Harry’s lineage more than his publicity that will be helpful—Horace has always been one to show partiality, and Lily Evans was one of his favorite pupils of all time. I think the sight of you might remind him why he loved teaching so much for so many years, and of all of the aspects he misses.”

Harry swallows heavily. “He taught my mum? She was—good at defense?”

The old man chuckles. “To some extent, of course, but you misunderstand me, Harry—Horace is a potions professor. Professor Snape has agreed to abdicate the position in favor of taking over Defense.”

Harry and Hermione’s jaws both drop; in the Order and Draco’s godfather or not, Snape is someone person they deeply distrust, and the prospect of him teaching such a critical subject right now, when they can’t afford any gaps in defense knowledge—

“In any case,” Dumbledore carries on, ignoring their surprise, “it is possible that the fame and spectacle surrounding you will be what draws him in, Harry, and if that is the case I’m afraid I must ask you to still do your best to convince him to return. I ask you this not as a student, but as a member of the Order; Horace possesses information that is perhaps imperative in order for us to defeat Voldemort.”

Harry swallows, scratching at his hair futilely. “I—yeah, I understand. I’ll come.”

“I’m coming with you,” Hermione declares, expression daring Dumbledore to contradict her.

But he doesn’t, he just nods, looking amused, and holds out both arms. “Very well, then. If you’d both hold on to me, I will apparate us there now.”

The sensation is jolting—a tug behind the navel, the feeling of being out of control not unlike a muggle roller coaster, and then they’re there.

Hermione has to close her eyes for a beat, nauseous as her brain tries to reconcile the movement and change in location. They’re at the gates of an opulent property, Harry looking equally sick beside her, and Dumbledore looking at ease despite the grim set of the home before them.

It goes quickly, after that; Dumbledore making Slughorn reveal himself, Slughorn immediately protesting the idea of returning to Hogwarts, delight at the sight of Harry followed by microaggressive backhanded compliments towards all muggleborns on behalf of Lily.

His warmth towards Harry extends to Hermione when Harry introduces her as his best friend, and after that it doesn’t take much to talk him into accepting the position.

(But even as they leave, successful, something about it feels off to Hermione—the gleam in Dumbledore’s eye, his unwillingness to disclose what Horace knows that’s so important.)

(Hermione can’t shake the feeling there’s something explosive at stake.)

/

“Get up, Mi!”

Hermione groans into her pillow at the sound of her brother’s voice. “No, I’m sleeping.”

Harry crawls in beside her, pushing his shoulder up against her own. “You’re gonna want to once I tell you what today is.”

“Don’t care. Now shhh.”

The bed shifts under another weight, and then Sofia’s on her other side. Their newest sibling is as little of a morning person as Hermione, so she curls into the older girl’s side and closes her own eyes as though to go back to sleep.

Harry rolls his eyes at the both of them, having been up for several hours already. “Fine. I guess I’ll keep your Hogwarts letter, then.”

The words send an adrenaline rush through her veins, and she surges upward. “Harry James! You could’ve led with that.”

“I told you you’d want—”

She sends him a glare and he wisely doesn’t finish the sentence, instead helping her and a grumpy Sofia to their feet and racing to the kitchen.

Remus raises an eyebrow at them as he sips his coffee, Tonks pausing her chatter beside him to wave good morning to everyone.

Hermione rubs at tired eyes as she sits down, beaming at Harry when he sets a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of her. “You made breakfast?”

Harry shrugs bashfully. “I like cooking for you guys. It’s relaxing, makes me feel—in control.” He chews on a piece of fruit before adding, “And you do so much to take care of me all the time, it’s nice to return the favor a bit every once in a while.”

He moves to grab the envelopes, placing hers next to her plate.

(Something in her chest grows so, so happy at the sight of the familiar Hogwarts seal that’s always been a beacon of hope.)

(has always meant safety was coming soon, that home and love were near.)

“You waited to open yours?” she checks, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Of course. I’m not trying to get hexed by you today.”

They begin tearing into the paper, Hermione’s eyes racing down to the textbook list. Her brow furrows. “The book Slughorn’s assigned is _awfully _old—not to disrespect his experience, of course, but from what I’ve read it’s quite a bit outdated. Snape’s looks good, though—maybe he’ll actually be a good defense teacher.”

Tonks snorts, clearly doubtful, but Harry remains silent—oddly out of character for him. Hermione turns to find him frozen, eyes bugging out of his head. “What’s wrong? Did they not put you in the right NEWT courses?”

He blinks, not hearing her.

“Harry?” Hermione shakes his shoulder and he zones back in to find the rest of the table staring at him.

“Sorry. Everything is fine, I—sorry. I’m just so surprised. I hadn’t even considered…” He smiles tentatively. “I’ve been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.”

Tonks cheers, but Remus and Hermione groan in tandem.

Hermione pushes past her apprehension and smiles at Harry, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, Harry, you’ll be absolutely brilliant. McGonagall couldn’t have chosen better.”

“Someone get me firewhiskey, I can’t do this sober, ” Remus moans, laying his face on the table. “Maybe some muggle ear plugs too. He’s going to be insufferable.”

“Who’s going to be insufferable, love?” Sirius asks while making his way into the kitchen in a robe.

Tonks bursts out laughing at the dread on her best friend’s face. “You, you Labrador.” She rests her hand on the baby bump as she grins at Harry. “Go on then, tell him.”

Hermione motions for Sofia to cover her ears as she does the same, and Remus casts a silencing spell about his person, knowing if he doesn’t his heightened senses will be beyond overwhelmed.

Harry holds up the badge to his father silently, expression timid.

(still so, so desperate for someone to be proud of him, so sure they won’t be.)

Sirius’s lips begin to tremble as he takes in the sight of the badge, and he bounds forward to practically tackle Harry in a hug. “_My boy is Quidditch Captain! Gryffindor Quidditch Captain!_”

He’s practically screaming it, even as he ruffles Harry’s hair, then begins singing loudly and off-key as he dances around the kitchen and puts a plate together—then stops midway through to run across the house and announce the development to Andy and Ted.

“He’s going to be like this for ages,” Hermione groans.

Remus nods in agreement before getting to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks him.

His father rolls his eyes at the door Sirius had left through. “To send Minerva a Howler.”

/

They’re in Diagon the next day, and the atmosphere is—unlike anything Harry and Hermione have ever experienced.

The usual noise of the street’s bustle is subdued, many merely nodding to friends they pass rather than stopping to talk. It lacks the usual life and color—no bright sale posters, no rowdy children racing around, no vendors attempting to catch the attention of passerby.

(Their favorite ice cream cart is empty and desolate, looking long abandoned.)

The brick of buildings and glass of storefronts are decorated only with Ministry propaganda, anti-Voldemort countermeasures to take, ways to evade Dementors, werewolves, and inferi alike. A few aurors are on patrol, though it’s clear it’s more for the civilians to feel safe than to actually _keep _them safe.

The one bright spot is the joke shop; it’s—phenomenal, of course.

Fred and George’s inventions are truly incredible, and Ron has been helping with organization and tactical advertising that makes everyone want to buy even the things they’ll never have need of.

Their ads and signage are ridiculous, and risky enough that Hermione’s sure Daphne and Oliver are a bit terrified for their well-being, but the burst of happiness they bring is unparalleled. The entire space is jam packed with witches and wizards of all ages, and here there’s—conversation, and smiles, and _laughter_.

“This is amazing, you two,” Hermione praises as she inspects the newest version of their schoolbag with built in defense spells and mechanisms.

“We do our best,” Fred winks. “Come see the best part.”

He leads them to the counter where Ron and the witch under their employ are working the register, weaving around the line that nearly wraps around the store.

“As promised.” George gestures behind Ron, to an enormous gold plaque hanging high on the wall, bearing the image of a scarlet stag and doe crossing at the shoulders, looking out over the space protectively.

Beneath the sculptures, raised lettering reads,

_“I am especially glad of the divine gift of laughter; it has made the world human and lovable, despite all its pain and wrong.”_

_In honor of James and Lily Potter,  
whose laughter and love live on_

“W.E.B. Du Bois,” Remus whispers, a wistful smile on his face as he rubs his husband’s back soothingly. “Lily would find that incredibly appropriate.”

Sirius nods, pressing a hand to his mouth like he’s choking back tears. “It’s perfect,” he says gruffly. “Exactly what they deserve.”

Harry gives a bittersweet smile—grateful for the tribute, the permanent depiction of what Sirius has told him to be their patronuses, their _souls_.

Clearing his throat, Sirius smiles at the twins. “This is—the best Marauder legacy I could imagine.” He winks at Harry. “Except for you, of course.”

Harry blushes but rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

They do another lap of the store, amassing several baskets full of merchandise; the twins attempt to offer it free, as a return on Sirius’s investment, but he waves their protests away and hands over the galleons anyway.

“We’ll hit Flourish and Blotts next, yeah?” Remus checks with them as they ready to step outside, his hand intertwined with Sirius’s.

Harry nods with approval, and Hermione’s just opening her mouth to agree when she catches a glimpse of white blond through the glass storefront.

“I—have to do something. Grab the books I need, please?” She holds out a hand and Harry instinctively passes her the invisibility cloak he’d shrunk and stuffed into his pocket.

And then she’s walking away before he or the parents can respond, expression incredulous at the significance of her of all people missing out on the bookstore.

She sneaks behind an rack of merchandise empty of patrons to pull on the cloak, and then she’s hurrying outside, rushing to catch up with him just as he nears the Diagon/Knockturn border.

She resists the impulse to make her presence known by reaching to stroke his hair, or grasp his hand, knowing to do so would incite a visible reaction from him. Instead, when he pauses to reach for something within his robes, she whispers, “Romeo, it’s me.”

He’s so, _so_ good at not reacting—she’d think he hadn’t heard her if she didn’t hear the relaxed breath he lets out, the way he wets his lips like he wants to say—everything.

She follows him through the street; so, _so_ careful to make sure no one bumps into her, no invisible encounters go unexplained.

He makes his way to Borgin and Burke’s, and she casts a notice-me-not over herself, just in case, hypervigilant as they step into the small space.

From what she can tell, it’s a glorified pawn shop, filled with only the most horrible of artifacts in its inventory.

(Draco’s acting so clandestine because he’s on a mission for Voldemort, then.)

The look of distaste he wears as he takes in the wares is a carbon copy of his father’s, which has the shop keeper hurrying to appease him. Draco pretends to glance around without taking notice of anything in particular, but Hermione can track his attention—the way the things he’s actually looking at are the ones with dangerous magic.

(A hand of glory, a cursed lockbox, a necklace.)

His gaze catches on the cabinet in the corner of the shop—to the untrained eye an ordinary bit of wood, but what Hermione knows to be a Vanishing cabinet.

(A memory tugs at her mind, of Pansy cackling after the twins shoved Marcus Flint into one once—she knows Draco’s remembering it too.)

Draco sniffs pretentiously before waving at the shop keeper. “Put the dragon hide cauldron, the necklace, and the Cerberus whistle on the Malfoy account.”

(Sandwiching the necklace between two meaningless objects, making them all seem a casual impulse buy—her soul mate is clever and cautious.)

(She can only hope it’s enough.)

He heads to the exit without waiting for confirmation, as though to remind the man of the gravity of the Malfoy name.

Outside, he ducks down a back alley, weaving behind buildings until they arrive at a dead end; he casts protective enchantments, before letting out a deep sigh, icy expression melting as his guard comes down.

Hermione tugs the cloak off hastily, not even bothering to shove it in her bag as she moves to hug him.

“Hi,” she whispers against his neck.

Draco lets out a breathless laugh. “Hi, baby.”

They’re quiet for a beat, arms around each other so tightly that it almost hurts—but they don’t mind the pain, because pain means it’s real.

“You’re okay? And your mother?”

“As much as we can be.” Draco rubs at his temple. “It’s hell, but—term starts soon.”

(A reality that fills him with both relief and dread; so close to escaping living hell but terrified to leave his mother behind.)

“Things will be better for her when I’m not there, though. She’s excited to meet you someday, by the way. Made me give her all the details as soon as we got off the Hogwarts express.”

She hums, giving a small smile at the thought.

“I have to give you intel, before anything else,” he says softly, though his voice is raspy. “I’ve been tasked with killing Dumbledore. I’m going to ‘accidentally’ muck it up, of course, but the Dark Lord doesn’t actually believe I’ll succeed regardless—it’s my father’s punishment, my death sentence.” He snorts, expression bitter. “I’m afraid Voldemort has a warped perception of my father’s affection for me.”

(As though his death would bother Lucius in the slightest.)

“The Order needs to be on guard, though, because if he doesn’t think I’ll succeed, he’ll assign the task to another. Mother says it’s Snape—and that he’s agreed to help with my own efforts, but I still don’t wholly trust him, and even if I did, Voldemort will just keep sending assassins until one is successful.”

“Lovely,” Hermione mutters.

(As much as she detests the old man, if Voldemort wants him gone it’s a pretty good sign he’s valuable to the cause.)

“There’s more,” Draco grimaces. “He’s recruited Fenir Greyback—he’s the preeminent werewolf alpha in Britain, and he’s pretty much killed anyone who challenged him—even anyone who wasn’t living the lifestyle he believes werewolves should.”

Hermione frowns, mind working a million miles an hour. “He’s the one that…god. Remus.”

He nods darkly. “He is every children’s story monster come to life. And he’s proposed biting muggles to improve their numbers advantage; Voldemort’s turned down the proposition, I think because he doesn’t want to risk such a large population that could potentially turn against him. But still, the possibility is there. And they've already begun infiltrating the Ministry—both through their own anonymity, as well as the imperius curse.”

“Good lord,” Hermione moans, running her fingers through Draco’s hair to distract herself from the sense of impending doom. “Anything else?”

“You need to be careful,” he says, looking as worried as she’s ever seen. “He’s been trying to find out more about you—Snape and I have both downplayed it, but his other sources have tried to turn up all the information about you and exactly how helpful you’ve been in keeping Harry alive. He hasn’t talked about it in front of me, but—he’s planning something. You’re in danger, Mia.”

“Of course. God forbid we ever have a break.” She rubs at her temples, before putting on a small smile and stroking Draco’s cheek. “Hey, I’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. It’s just a little bit longer, and then we’ll be together every day, and we can—figure out what comes next.”

“I know.” Draco pulls her closer, inhaling the scent of her hair in an attempt to remind himself that she’s here, and okay, and _alive_.

“You should go,” she tells him softly, though her grip on his robes doesn’t relent. “They’ll be suspicious if you take much longer.”

“I’ll see you next week,” Draco promises. He kisses her one more time—then leans to suck on her neck the way he knows riles her up.

“Draco now is _not _the time to tease me!” Hermione hisses, with half a mind to hex him and half a mind to hook up right there in the dark of the alley. “God, I hate you, you prick.”

“You know I’ll make up for it next week—it’ll give me something to look forward to till I see you again.” He grins, then—truly smiles for the first time in months.

(His expression is nearly bright enough to make the bags beneath his eyes and the too-sharp cheekbones beneath his skin disappear.)

(They’re not alright, but it’s all Hermione can do to hope they’re almost through it--)

(to tell herself they’ll all be some semblance of okay, in the end.)

/

_The new recruit kneels at Voldemort’s feet, the two of them alone in the drawing room after the Dark Lord had commanded everyone else to leave them._

_“The Hogwarts Express leaves tomorrow.” His voice is a near hiss as he strokes Nagini, eyeing the teenager before him. Enjoying the way his gaze makes him cower._

_“Y-yes, my Lord.” The boy tries to keep himself from trembling in Voldemort’s presence, largely unsuccessful. “Am I—do you not want me to return to Hogwarts, or—”_

_“Silence.” The word is said quietly, but the anger and power it carries— “Of course you will return, ingrate. Are you a fool? Not to do so would reveal your allegiance, and defeat the purpose of you _being _my spy.” _

_The boy nods, stuttering apologies until Voldemort holds up a hand to silence him._

_“You are to watch Potter’s mudblood; who she’s close to, what she values, what her weaknesses are. I want to know every single one of her vulnerabilities. Interrogate the other girls in her year, obliviate them afterwards.”_

_“Yes, my Lord.”_

_“I’ll expect a thorough report by Christmas. I will not tolerate failure.”_

_The student sucks in a deep breath, nodding profusely. “Of course, my Lord. I will not disappoint you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from living by doers bentley  
This feels a bit filler-y so sorry about that had a recent breakthrough in circa deathly hollows plotting and I am so so hype for things to come!!!  
love y’all—take care of yourselves


	29. break till I shatter

Hermione’d always thought the Hogwarts atmosphere couldn’t get any worse than it had been under Umbridge’s regime, or even the end of last term, when everything went to hell.

But now, after three months of unmitigated terror and fear, everyone at home hearing whispers and reading missing reports and obituaries—

(Everyone’s fear is palpable.)

Several families are especially grim; their names those that have recently been in the paper.

(Those who’ve lost loved ones.)

Sirius hugs them both close, Sofia pouting at his side; she’d thrown a legendary tantrum upon being told her siblings were leaving again, even though her parents had promised she would see them regularly when she and Sirius floo to visit Remus in his quarters.

Sixth year prefects don’t have to attend the meeting on the train, so Hermione and Harry track down a compartment, Blaise, Ginny, and Ron joining them shortly after.

Ginny’s sitting on Blaise’s lap, which has Ron looking on the verge of retching, but it’s clear the two are just relieved to be together and safe.

(If such a thing is even possible right now.)

“Is Luna coming?” Ron asks Harry, before casting a spell to make the chessboard float between them.

“No, she and Padma and Ernie are hanging out to discuss hippogriff habitats, or something? I dunno, I just nod sometimes because I never know what she’s talking about.”

A few minutes later the door to the compartment swings open, Pansy dramatically pausing after stepping inside before closing it to allow Draco to sneak in behind her, disillusioned.

As soon as they’re both inside Hermione begins casting the familiar security enchantments, blocking out their window.

Draco becomes visible—and even though she saw him a week ago, she could swear he’s lost even more weight.

(Lost even more sleep.)

Harry moves to hug him tightly. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Potter,” Draco smiles half-heartedly. He moves to Hermione’s side, nearly collapsing into the seat beside her with relief, the tension leaving his body as he leans his head on her shoulder.

His soul mate moves her fingers through his hair gently, brow furrowed with concern.

Even more concerning is Pansy’s behavior; she’s quiet, sitting in the corner and receding into herself—at one point even telling Ron she’s too tired for a chess match.

(She is—not okay, in a horribly, horribly wrong way Hermione can just _sense_.)

Blaise rubs circles on Ginny’s hand with his thumb as he begins speaking. “My mother says Slughorn is a decent professor, but plays favorites excessively. He’s not a particularly accomplished wizard himself, but he has connections everywhere in the wizarding world—entertainment, politics, innovators, investors, you name it.”

A nod from Harry. “Yeah, when Hermione and I were at his place a few weeks ago he managed to mention at least five or six famous alums he’s still in contact with in less than as many minutes.”

Draco cocks his head, gears in his mind whirring. “You think Dumbledore wants to use Slughorn to recruit?”

“I’d believe it,” Ron mutters. “The way Mum and Dad tell it he’d do anything and everything to get people to fight for their side the last time around.”

“So is he trying to get powerful people to fight with the Order,” Hermione muses. “Or to leave the Death Eaters?”

“Both, probably,” Draco says darkly. “He’ll do everything in his ability to consolidate as much power as possible.”

Thoughtful, Ron rubs at his chin. “We need to get close to him. Someone to be around, able to keep an eye on what exactly Dumbledore wants with him.”

All eyes turn to Hermione.

She groans, slumping against the back of the seat. “Why me?”

“Hermione. Come on.” Ron clasps his hands together and levels her with a look. “We need someone to suck up to a teacher. Someone he’ll favorite because they’re exceptionally smart and good at potions and likely to have an especially bright and lucrative future. Are you kidding me? There’s literally no one else who could possibly be a better candidate.”

Her cheeks warm at the compliments, weaponized as they are. “Okay, thank you, but—but—he likes charisma, and charm, and social capital. I have none of those things. And he’s already taken a particular fascination with Harry, so I think he would be—”

“Oh, throw me under the bus, why don’t you!” Harry sends her a half-hearted glare. “I don’t think so. Need I remind you of the many professors who have _previously _taken an interest me? There was the one with a psychopath on his head that tried to kill me, the one that tried to obliviate me and leave me to be murdered by a basilisk—”

“Harry—”

He continues, nonplussed, “—the one who predicted my death a few hundred times, the _other _psychopath who tried to kill me _and _murdered and maimed three professors, the _other _other psychopath who used an illegal torture device to permanently scar me and attempted to use an Unforgivable on me _after_ attempting to get my wand snapped the summer before.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “No thank you, Mia, I would very much like to sit this one out.”

“Not to mention you _definitely _do have charm and social skills,” Blaise adds, eyebrows raised. “You managed to convince all four houses they should ally for ASA, convinced them all the join and then to listen and throw away previous prejudices. Hermione, you’re the perfect person to do this.”

“Ugh I hate it when you’re _right_,” she moans. “Fine. You all suck.”

“I’ll buy you as many licorice wands as you want all term,” Harry promises, smile wide.

“Damn straight you will.” She gets to her feet with a sigh. “I’m going to run to the bathroom and then hit the trolley—Pansy, you want to come with?”

The other girl eyes her, likely knowing it’s a ploy, but acquiesces nonetheless; Hermione lifts the wards for them to exit, then recasts once they’re on the outside.

“You don’t need to go to the bathroom, do you?” Pansy asks as soon as they’re alone.

Hermione gives her a small smile. “No. But you’ve barely spoken a word all day—something’s wrong. Spill.”

Pansy looks around them, before dropping to the floor, pulling her knees tight to her chest. “Can you—do your thing, so we’re not overheard?”

Her friend nods worriedly, casting the usual spells to keep the section of hallway secluded, before turning her full attention to Pansy.

The Slytherin is quiet for a moment, taking a shuddering breath before forcing out a whisper. “It happened again.”

(Her silence, the way she’s curled in on herself, even the way she’s tugging her sleeves down over her fingers—Hermione understands instantly.)

(The realization makes her have to resist the urge to vomit.)

“Oh, god, Pansy.” Her voice breaks. “God. You just can’t catch a break. Fuck.” She looks to Pansy carefully, trying to figure out what she needs. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It—I—” Pansy opens and closes her mouth, unable to compose words, unable to even breathe, just—overwhelmed by it all. She presses a hand to her mouth, muffling her speech.

After a beat, she takes a rattling breath before speaking. “He—Voldemort, I mean—he’s using Malfoy Manor as headquarters. So I was there a lot all summer, for meetings and planning and revels and inductions, and—all of it.” She swallows heavily. “Draco’s the only one of us still in school that he Marked, but—it’s clear we’re all a part of his side. Not that that’s relevant to anything.”

“That’s okay,” Hermione soothes, voice gentle. “Whatever you want to tell me. Whatever you need to say.”

Pansy nods sharply. Her eyes are far away. “There was a revel. Everyone was drinking; we weren’t allowed to opt out, and even if we could I wouldn’t have wanted to—the drinking made it all easier to stomach.” Deep breaths. “I don’t remember much. After the fact, I realized someone must have—drugged me, or imperio-d me, I—I don’t know. It’s in and out, the whole rest of the night, just—flashes, bits and pieces of it.

“And,” she presses her hands to her face, like this is the part that kills her the most, “I don’t know who it was. I can’t remember what he looks like, because of—the drugs, and the dark, and the unconsciousness. I—I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him.” She slides her fingers to her scalp, tugging at her hair as though if she pulls hard enough it’ll distract her from the pain she’s remembering. “Hermione, he could be anyone. Anywhere, I—he could walk up and say hi to me and I wouldn’t know that he’s—”

(She dry heaves, then leans her head onto her knees, devolving.)

“I’m so sorry, Pansy.” Hermione’s lip trembles, wishing she could wrap her friend in a hug.

(Knowing doing so might only make it worse.)

“I just…” Pansy hesitates, licking her lips anxiously. “Before—it was awful, but—the kind of thing I could chalk up to a monster. And I knew there wre plenty of monsters out there, but somehow…they still felt like the minority. But now, it doesn’t feel like a fluke, it feels like—like they’re everywhere. Like I’ll never be okay again.”

And Hermione has to squeeze her eyes shut because that—that feeling she _knows_.

(God, does she know it.)

“I just don’t understand.” Pansy whispers. “Part of me is glad it was me instead of someone else—I’m already broken from it, you know? Better me again than someone who’s still whole. I know it’s—survivable. But at the same time—how is this _fair_?” her voice breaks. “Did I do something wrong? Did I—”

“Hey, no, do _not _go there.” Hermione’s tone is insistent—a command. “This is no one’s fault but his. You and I know that better than anyone. Men like that…” Clenched jaw, she shakes her head. “Drunk or sober, single or dating, tank top or pajamas, seven or seventeen—this is what they do. _They_ are the problem, not us.”

“But I—the fact that it was more than once, that someone totally different figured out that I was a good target—”

“That’s not just you, babe.” Hermione reaches to tie her hair back, needing it off of her face, her neck. “It’s—statistically, half of us are revictimized later in life. We’ve been conditioned not to fight back, to think trying to stop it is useless.” She gives a helpless shrug. “It’s—shit. But it’s not just you. And it’s definitely not your fault.”

Pansy’s eyes water for the first time during the whole conversation. “Thanks.” She leans her head onto Hermione’s shoulder gently. “Do you think we’ll ever feel safe again?” she wonders aloud.

“I don’t know,” Hermione admits faintly. “Sometimes I do—with Draco, or Harry and his family. When I’m with you, Ginny, and Luna. Never for long, but—it’s something. And I have to believe—someday it’ll be better. When the world stops falling apart long enough for us to—heal, or something.”

“I’d like to believe that, too,” Pansy whispers, eyes fluttering closed as she imagines it.

(She falls asleep, then; sleeps the rest of the ride to Hogwarts, the two hours passed out on Hermione’s lap in the hallway the longest consecutive amount of time she’s slept in months.)

(_Someday._)

/

All throughout the welcome feast, it seems like every upperclassman in the entire student body is trying to catch Harry and Hermione’s eye.

A bunch of them approach, each one attracting more even as Harry and Hermione attempt to wave them off.

(They know what they want, of course—it’s all ASA members, asking what the plan will be now that Umbrdige is gone.)

(If they’ll still have the group that had become a safe haven, the one place everyone was united.)

But even though Umbridge is gone, it doesn’t mean everyone in the castle is on their side; being this obvious is just a very, very bad idea, a chance for everyone to figure them out waiting to happen.

Eventually, Ron’s the one to make them scatter. “Oi! Give them some space, you lot. Don’t you have things to do?”

“Yeah, it’s the first night of term,” Neville calls. “Leave them be and go—count your galleons, or something.”

The statement is so incredibly out of character, so far beyond shocking coming from _Neville, _of all people, that it makes everyone go silent.

(Just so _odd_, and the way he’d stressed the word _galleons_—)

“Oh!” Hermione exclaims, understanding dawning on her. “Neville, you are _brilliant_.”

She digs in the bag she’d cast the undetectable extension charm on, one she’s taken to always keeping on her person.

Tugging out the ASA communication galleon, she watches out of the corner of her eye as they all realize what she’s doing and retreat. “Thank god for Neville,” she mutters. “Harry, do you want to call for a meeting to figure things out Sunday night?”

He nods immediately, and she’s charming it into the coin, silently begging for them all to be a little more subtle in checking their coins.

(They can’t afford any enemies to know.)

“Are we even _doing_ ASA this year?” Ron asks quietly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love it as much as anyone, but—is there a need?”

Hermione bites her lip. “Not in the same way—as much as I dislike Snape, he _is _a good teacher, so I wholly believe we’ll have adequate Defense instruction. But…we can never overprepare with a war on the horizon.”

Harry nods in agreement, frowning thoughtfully. “And—last year the focus was the defense itself, and the unity was just icing on the cake. This year…I think the time together, the safe haven, is what everyone needs.” He scratches the back of his head, further messing up his hair. “We should do it, but—more like an _actual _study group this year, instead of a teenage militia. Like, people can practice wand work together if they’d like, but they can also just talk while they do bookwork, or even just spend the time relaxing, seeing friends they might not normally get to see.”

“All the hours we spent insisting it wasn’t a teenage militia to Remus and Percy last year only for you to call it one now,” Hermione rolls her eyes, but smiles fondly. “That’s a great idea. Perfect, actually.” She tucks baby hairs behind her ears. “We’ll have to renew the contract, adjust for any new students that join and take off the old ones.”

“No,” Ron blurts. “Don’t take them off.”

Hermione’s brows furrow. “Ron, what—”

“We know Voldemort has eyes on you, right?” he says quietly. “You’re a target. Anyone no longer bound by the contract would become a potential leak—someone who could tell him anything and everything they learned about you last year. Anything they learned about _anyone_ in all of ASA.”

“You’re right—god, of course you’re right. I—can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” A shake of her head. Voice hollow, she says, “It’s odd. Things were so bad last year, and yet—I think this is the year we need to worry more. The year we’re in the most danger we’ve ever been in.”

Harry sighs, tiredness lining his face as he looks out across the room around them.

Grim set to her face, Ginny says, “Let the games begin.”

/

That night, Hermione and Draco commandeer the RoR, barring the door and politely ordering their friends to _stay the hell away, please_.

The second they’re alone, they both—fall apart.

(overwhelmed with emotion, and stress, and a complicated joy at being together.)

They should be talking strategy, and catching up on all the thigns they haven’t been able to tell each other yet—but instead, they lean into each other impulsively, and then Draco’s mouth is on her neck and she’s tugging off his robes and tie—

(it’s dumb—idiotic, to spend the time having sex instead of having the serious conversations, but that’s exactly why they need it so bad—why they so desperately just want to escape the world for a little while, get lost inside the bliss that is each other.)

It’s—soothing, reclaiming this, the sense of control in choosing; the calm, in him knowing not to say the niceties she’d once heard that made her skin crawl; the security blanket of peace and passion that is Draco against her, behind her, above her; the shape of the body she knows better than her own, the skin linked to hers that every fiber of her being _knows_.

(And yeah, in a basic, physiological way, it feels good.)

After, they catch up on all of the things—his mother, Voldemort, the Order. Any more information for her to convey to McGonagall.

(How the hell they’re going to get through the hellscape that is this year.)

The odds are very much not in their favor, the stakes too high for it all to end well.

(But in this moment, she manages to find hope that somehow it will.)

/

“What do you mean, you’re not taking potions?” Hermione demands, eyes narrowed at her brother as they make their way through the hall the first morning of classes.

Harry waves away her concern before covering a yawn. “I only ever needed it if I was going to be an Auror. We all agreed I’m not gonna do that, and if I _am _going to teach the only thing I need a NEWT in is Defense.” He makes a face. “Sucks that I have to deal with Snape, still, but at least I don’t have to deal with potions itself anymore.”

“Harry James you don’t get to just drop core subjects like that!” Hermione groans and contemplates either throttling him or casting a body-bind to drag him to class. “Whatever you go on to do, a basic knowledge of potions is important.”

“Yeah, I’m sure a basic knowledge of Divination would be important too and yet _one of us _doesn’t even have a full year of it.”

Hermione scowls, even though she knows he’s just saying it to get a rise out of her. “I’m going to potions. Don’t come begging me to brew for you the next time you need to interrogate someone with Polyjuice, you pain in the ass.”

“Love you! Have fun in potions!”

He smiles cheekily as she heads toward Slughorn’s classroom, only to spin around and come face to face with McGonagall. “Ahh, god—I mean, Professor! Good morning.”

“Mister Potter.” Even though he’s taller than her now, she manages to look down her nose at him. “Please tell me I misheard you. _Tell _me you are not truly so foolish as to drop a vital class simply because you dislike it.”

Harry begins to let out a sigh before quickly stopping at the sight of his professor’s glare. “Professor, you’re the one who said I shouldn’t be an Auror. Why else would I take Potions?”

“Well, for one thing, Miss Granger is right—there may come a day you critically need a potion and she’s not there to do it all for you.” She gives him a look, like she knows just how much of their magic Hermione conducts. “For another, Hogwarts does like its faculty to be proficient in all subjects, not only the one which they teach. Not to mention _other _organizations in which you may wish to engage often expect a certain level of proficiency in all core subjects.”

He grimaces at the realization—_she means the Order_.

(_god damn it.)_

“Fine, fine—I mean yes, Professor.”

“That’s what I thought. Go on, then, I’m sure Professor Slughorn will be thrilled to see you.”

She’s smirking a bit too much for his liking as he heads in the direction Hermione had gone, making his way down to the potions room.

He braces himself for opening the door—the way every student does, knowing how every head will turn.

(He’s used to more attention than he’d like, but even still—dreads it.)

Slughorn beams as soon as he enters the room, Hermione’s eyebrows lifting with happy surprise; Harry smiles nervously, distracted by how few people are in the room.

(It makes sense, he supposes; potions is one of the more difficult subjects, and even only needing an Exceeds Expectations excludes a good chunk of the student body.)

(But still—it surprises him, the intimacy of such a small class, Hermione and Parvati the only other Gryffindors in the room.)

“Harry, m’boy! Are you here to join us?”

“Yes, Professor, I’m sorry it’s so last minute.”

Slughorn waves away his concerns. “Not a problem, dear boy. Go ahead and sit where you’d like, we’re just about to begin.”

Harry moves to the table where Hermione and Pansy are seated, settling on his stool before turning to his sister anxiously. “Er, I didn’t want to tell him and cause a scene, but—I don’t have the book yet. Alright if I look of you?”

“Of course.” She squeezes his hand. “Breathe, Harry.”

He nods, tuning into what Slughorn is saying about the potions before them.

It—as much as he’s always hated potions because of Snape, the content really is interesting, especially with a professor who so clearly just wants them to love it as much as he does.

When the lid’s taken off the Amortentia, he blushes at the scent of daisies, lake water, and a hint of radishes—so purely Luna, it makes his heart float.

(He tries not to grin at the glances exchanged between Hermione and Draco, trying to force themselves to keep a lid on their emotions at the sight of each other as the scent of the love potion seeps through the room; he meets Pansy’s gaze, snickers when she rolls her eyes at the two of them.)

The period is a competition; the whole time, Hermione’s muttering under her breath about something in the directions not feeling right. _“There are just more efficient methods for this,” _she keeps muttering, shaking her head at the outdated textbook, occasionally consulting prior years’ notes to confirm that her memory is accurate before utilizing the methods she’d learned from Snape.

Likewise, Draco brags about Snape being his godfather under the premise of being an asshole, but it’s really taunts to Hermione—a challenge, to his soul mate, to see whose potion will be better.

(Hermione’s kind enough not to boast audibly, when Slughorn deduces her the winner, though Harry does catch her scribbling _ha_ on her wrist.)

As the others start to leave the classroom, Hermione taps his shoulder. “You should see if Professor Slughorn has any extra copies of the textbook; not that I’m not happy to share as long as you need, of course, but given that our homework schedules are often vastly different it might be good for you to have your own loaner till you can order one.”

He nods, following her advice and mumbling his thanks when the professor directs him to a closet in the back. There are two copies, there, one appearing fairly new, the other incredibly shabby, spine wrinkled and pages thick from frequent use.

And it probably doesn’t matter, the odds of any other transfers before he gets his copy and gives the loaner back are slim, but—he’s never minded hand me downs, much.

(He’s already been given so much more excess than he ever expected.)

So he grabs the older copy, casually stuffing it into his bag and hoping it’s not missing any important pages.

(Thinks nothing more of it—not yet, anyway.)

/

Pansy is—skittish, understandably so.

So Neville’s careful when he approaches the first Sunday night of term after ASA, when their friends have stuck around post-meeting to have drinks and pizza they’d begged Winky to bring them from a muggle shop.

Pansy puts on her patented smirk, the usual suave façade when he approaches—though her eyes are soft, as they tend to be around him.

“Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?”

She blinks with surprise, curving her lips. “Yeah, of course—do you need a shopping consult or something?” one eyebrow cocked. “You’d better be careful, or I’ll think you want to take me on a date, Longbottom.”

“Good.” Neville smiles, looking nervous but still sure. “That’s kind of the idea.”

She shouldn’t be surprised, really, and yet her jaw drops open at the admission. “I—you—really?”

He nods with a snort. “Desperately. I think everyone’s been tormented for the last year watching how painfully obvious my crush on you is.”

Pansy closes and opens her mouth—_words_, _words would be good here_.

“Oh,” she manages, cheeks flushed. “I—I’d like that, then. The date, I mean.” She hesitates a moment, before swallowing heavily. So only he can hear, she says, “I—dating me might not be like dating other girls. I have—things in my past…”

“That’s okay. Whatever it is. Whatever you’ve been through, we can—face it together” he promises, “Or if you need space, I can give you that too. Whatever you need. I just want to be with you.”

Pansy’s cheeks grow pink at the comment, at the honesty in his voice.

(Most of her is wary, reluctant to believe it, but—this is _Neville_.)

(Something about him has always felt—different.)

Hesitantly, she reaches for his hand; squeezes it, gently, feels a small smile creep up on her face. “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

(Nervous already, she shoots out of the room; she’s gone too soon to see Neville’s helpless grin as he pumps his fist up into the air.)

/

He’s tapping at his broom handle anxiously all during breakfast.

“You need to eat, Harry,” Hermione orders gently, setting a few blueberry waffles onto his plate. “You’ll feel better with some sugar in you. _Breathe._”

Harry nods; stabs his fork into a piece of waffle before eating it.

(It feels heavy in his mouth; it’s his favorite meal, but in this moment it tastes like cotton fluff and cardboard.)

“I’m going to be sick.”

“Have some pumpkin juice, at least,” Neville encourages from across the table. “It’ll go down easier, and you need _something _in your stomach.”

“No, Harry’s right,” Ron says from Harry’s other side, so pale he looks almost green. “Eating right now would equal vomit all over the table. Best not.”

Ginny rolls her eyes at the pair of them, snatching berries off of Hermione’s plate. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Just because you don’t have to worry—”

“Oh do shut _up_, ickle Ronnie.” She narrows her eyes at her brother. “You have nothing to worry about. Do I need to take my _Weasley is Our King_ pin back out? As loathe as I am to acknowledge any of your positive qualities, Quidditch is very much one of them. And _you_,” she turns to Harry, exasperated. “You literally already run a study group teaching teenagers NEWT level defense spells for a literal _war_. How can you possibly be nervous about coaching a fucking Quidditch team?”

Harry thumbs at the Captain’s badge adorning his chest. “You’re right, but it’s just—different. I don’t know. I’m worried I’ll mess it up.”

Remus approaches, and Hermione sighs with relief. “Please make your kid see sense, I’m about to hex him.”

The older man chuckles, taking a seat on the bench beside Neville. “Somehow, I doubt I’ll say anything different than you already have, Hermione. What’s the issue, then?”

“He’s panicking about being Quidditch Captain-for some reason he thinks he won’t be good at it.” Hermione crosses her arms, making a face as she says it. “Ron was too, but he seems to have calmed down some.”

She flicks her eyes to the Slytherin table meaningfully, and sees Remus’s lips twitch with amusement at the sight of a _Weasley is Our King_ badge affixed to Draco’s chest.

He turns to his son with a bemused smile. “Harry, I have spent all of the last week trying to talk your dad out of sending an excited Howler today to make sure the entire Great Hall would know you were the greatest quidditch captain Hogwarts has ever known. Please don’t tell me I should’ve let him.”

Harry flushes scarlet at the prospect. “No, I just—what if I’m bad at it?”

“Oh, Harry.” Remus’s expression grows serious. “Teaching and quidditch are the two things you’re best at in the world.”

“Besides almost getting murdered,” Ginny interjects helpfully, earning a flick from her brother and a look from Remus.

(Hermione and Harry both laugh, garnering looks from everyone around them who’s mentally stable.)

“_Anyway_,” Remus continues, “Given that those are your strengths, I can’t imagine anything more suited to you than being quidditch captain. You’re going to be great.” A grin forms on his face. “Minerva and I have been looking forward to tryouts for weeks—we have a bet with Pomona and Severus about the cup, so we’re rather invested in a strong team.”

“That sounds fairly unethical,” Hermione sing-songs.

The clock sounds out the end of breakfast, and their peers begin making their way out of the room, heading to wherever they intend to spend the free day.

“Harry, Hermione, a word,” Remus says—so they stay sitting, Hermione making faces at Harry to distract him from the fact that he has to go to the quidditch pitch, in a moment.

They both turn to him expectantly when the benches around them are empty.

Remus’s jaw twitches, and Harry scrunches his nose. “Oh, yikes, who are you annoyed with?”

His father grimaces at the reminder of his skill reading body language.

(The reminder of why he’d had to learn to read the slightest of movements.)

But nonetheless, he carries on. “Dumbledore has requested private lessons with you once weekly this year.” He scowls, making it clear he hates the idea. “I protested, but it has to do with—the Riddle efforts.”

(Their code for the Order, at least until Luna’s article is released in a few months.)

Hermione grips Harry’s wrist tightly with worry. “Even still, I don’t trust him, he can’t be alone with Harry once a week—”

“I said the same,” Remus nods. “Which is why Dumbledore is permitting you to accompany him to each lesson. He said it would be a good idea for you both to be able to discuss the content together anyway, that your different perspectives might be valuable to the work you’ll be doing.”

Harry scoffs. “More like he just wants to seem like he’s still the one in control.”

Remus gestures like he doesn’t disagree. “I don’t doubt it. Nonetheless, as much as we distrust Dumbledore, he is an incredibly knowledgeable wizard—everything you both learn will be invaluable. Just keep your guard up, please; and Sirius and I expect you to keep us informed of the times you’re with him, and send us missives when you return safely.”

They both roll their eyes at the caution, but are secretly pleased by it.

(at how loved it makes them feel, these people ready to go to war with the most powerful wizard in the world on their behalf without a second thought.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from shattered by o.a.r.
> 
> I know the pansy scene is a bit heavy, but it’s the reality of the world, and it felt important to me to keep the circumstances of this story as raw and real as life is.
> 
> Next chapter to come soon! Lots of love for y’all, always. Hope life is treating you well.


	30. think we're both fucked up & that's alright

Harry and Hermione are both antsy as they approach the first private lesson with Dumbledore; Sirius is pacing in Remus’s quarters, only barely having been talked out of storming the headmaster’s office himself.

They go under the Invisibility Cloak’s shroud, to keep from anyone else knowing; Harry’s gotten taller, such that he has to crouch a bit to keep from letting his ankles show.

They’d told the others not to wait up, but knowing them they’re all anxiously awaiting an update about whatever the hell Dumbledore wants to teach them in the RoR.The password is “cockroach clusters”, which Dumbledore likely thinks is whimsy and relatable but makes Hermione’s lip curl with distaste.

(Pretending to be so lighthearted and friendly as he willfully endangers and harms everyone around him, takes children’s lives into his hands and watches silently as they pay the price for his mistakes.)

He’s sitting at the desk, of course, smiling like he’s thrilled to see them. His injured hand is mostly concealed beneath flowing robes, and Harry and Hermione have grown so used to seeing it at meals and throughout the castle that they don’t pay much attention.

“Good evening Miss Granger, Harry.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at how familiar he is with her brother, the way he assumes they’re on the same side. Her eyes are carefully scanning the room; trinkets, a currently empty phoenix perch, empty frames of paintings whose residents have all coalesced in one spot, whispering amongst themselves. He has a bookshelf along the wall, but the shelves house magical artifacts and tools, sneakscopes and Gryffindor’s sword and the like—interesting, that someone who claims to be such a scholar doesn’t keep a single volume within reach.

(Or if he does, and they’re not visible—why hide them?)

Dumbledore gestures for them to sit, and they do. “How are you both enjoying your NEWT courses?”

Forcing a smile, Hermione nods, the way she knows everyone expects from her. “They're perfect, Professor.”

“And for you, Harry?”

As he mumbles something about everything being fine and liking Slughorn, Hermione’s attention is drawn to the desk; discarded envelopes, a quill, a bowl of lemon drops, a ring.

(A ring cracked down the middle, some kind of engraving she can’t see marred by the break.)

(It holds her attention, for reasons she can’t understand.)

“Our lessons this term will involve a great deal of looking into who Voldemort is in order to defeat him. In doing so, will be delving into who Tom Riddle _was_, and how he became the person he is now.”

She and Harry both nod, and Dumbledore rises, walking to the opposite side of the room, where he opens a cupboard to reveal a sole pewter basin.

“A pensive!” Harry exclaims, earning a confused look from Hermione. He shrugs, scratching the back of his head. “Neville has one in our dorm. Uses it to watch the memories of his parents from Dad and Moony sometimes.”

They turn their attention back to Dumbledore, approaching the pensive curiously.

“Today we’ll be looking at my _own_ memories—those of when I first met young Tom Riddle, prior to his time at Hogwarts.” His expression is grim. “Pay attention to his characteristics, his strengths and weaknesses, his motives. They will be crucial for understanding how he has achieved all that he has, how he has immortalized himself, how we can win this war.”

At the mention of immortality, Harry and Hermione exchange a look; both thinking of the horcruxes, but knowing better than to bring them up in front of him.

Dumbledore points his wand at his temple, dragging the silvery wisps into the pensive and gesturing for them to lean in.

Hermione hesitates, expression wary, so Harry squeezes her hand before lowering his face to the basin first.

And then he’s gone, and it’s not as if she’s going to let him go in alone with Dumbledore. She takes a deep breath before doing the same.

She lands in a defensive position, muscles tense as she takes in her surroundings: Harry beside her, as always, dreary weather, old style muggle cars on the road beside them.

The building they face is old, paint faded and peeling; an orphanage, and very visibly an unhappy one. Harry and Hermione follow the imagine of a younger Dumbledore, while his current self trails just behind them.

Harry has an odd look on his face, and Hermione grimaces, knowing he’s imagining what life would’ve been like if he’d ended up in a place like this.

(How things might’ve been, had he not grown up with the Dursleys--)

(as lifeless as this place seems, if it might’ve been better.)

Hermione holds his hand tightly, lending her strength as best she can as Dumbledore speaks to the woman in charge, explaining the details of bringing Tom to his school; she’s far too thrilled to have him off her hands for their liking.

Then they’re following her and the younger version of Dumbledore upstairs, entering a room where a young boy sits alone.

His head pops up from the thick tome in his hands, eyes guarded as he takes in the sight of Professor Dumbledore.

“Hello, Tom. My name is Professor Dumbledore.”

The look in his eyes—the caution, the distrust, the hypervigilance. It hurts Harry’s heart, and he knows Hermione sees it too.

(He might be a monster, now, but back then—he was just a lonely boy the world kept hurting. A boy who became bitter, and dark, because he didn’t see another way to get through it all.)

(one of them.)

Hermione winces when he assumes Dumbledore is there to institutionalize him, because she remembers—what it was like living in the muggle world, when the very fabric of your being was odd to everyone else, when a burst of accidental magic meant ostracism and being looked at sideways for years.

Meant distrust from peers and authority figures alike, no matter what you did to fit in.

(He did it all wrong, and there’s no excuse for anything he’s become since, but—god, they can understand how he got there.)

The understanding and validation, when Dumbledore demonstrates magic and tells him he’s special, the way his face lights up when he finds out he’ll be able to live at Hogwarts during the school year.

(A relief so familiar it _hurts_.)

He mentions power, and hurting others, and it’s clear he’s already developed some maladaptive ideas an darker impulses, and it’s then that Hermione turns to see the younger version of Dumbledore’s expression.

His eyes have gone cold; rather than regarding him with the joy and openness he’d initially approached with, he’s very clearly appraising Tom as a weed in a vegetable garden, the task of bringing him to Diagon a necessary evil.

(It’s so _visible_, that he distrusts the child, that he’s no longer on his side.)

(It’s a game changer.)

/

She’s in the library with Neville and Pansy; the Slytherin is focused on her work, expression stoic, but her non-dominant right hand is intertwined with her new-boyfriend’s own. His thumb strokes the back of her hand, and small smiles he so clearly can’t help creep onto his face whenever he looks over at her, and it’s—

(Hermione can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.)

Eventually they leave, off to get dinner with friends before going for a walk around the lake.

They’re shortly after replaced by Ginny and Luna, who are much more distracting but nonetheless Hermione is happy to have with her.

Draco’s beside her, disillusioned; he’s reading the same textbook as her, which the others are rolling their eyes at but she thinks is romantic, which is the only reason even she’s willing to wait to turn the page as he reads just a tad slower than she does.

She doesn’t hear Harry approach—footsteps careful and near to furniture to keep from making too much noise—so she’s too late to warn him when he goes to throw himself into the seat beside her; she can’t help but burst out laughing when he and Draco both shriek and pitch themselves out of the chair, though Draco’s collapse to the carpet isn’t visible to the naked eye.

“You could really make a signal, or something, so unsuspecting people don’t feel you up!” Harry exclaims, fixing his ruffled shirt and taking the next chair over.

“Well if you had waited half a second before sitting, I would’ve, but I didn’t exactly have the chance, Harry,” she tells him. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing, just—not excited to do this potions assignment, and my new Beaters aren’t nearly as good as the twins, so I’m a bit worried about the match because Ravenclaw’s got a strong offense—”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “You mean the potions assignment that’s due tomorrow.”

“Er—yeah, that’s the one.”

“The one we’ve had a week to do.”

“Mhm.”

“The one I helped you outline and walked through the content of on Sunday that you swore you weren’t going to procrastinate.”

Harry blows out a breath, then grimaces. “Yes, but you see, I read this muggle psychology article about studying over the summer, and it mentioned this thing called ‘spacing’, where if you work with information for shorter exposures multiple times over a longer period you’re more likely to retain it than if you do it all at once, so I—”

“Don’t you dare ‘_I read a muggle article_’ me, Harry Potter, I _invented_ that line! And I know that’s not why you did it.” She scowls at him, ignoring the pleading look he sends her way.

A bag of gummy bears is slid across the table toward her, and he meets her eyes with a self-satisfied grin. “Are you still mad _now_?”

She reluctantly reaches for the candy, putting several pieces in her mouth before responding. “Less so.”

“Cool. And I promise I have my notes from everything we went over already, so I’m going to work on it on my own, and it’s going to be done on time and everything.”

“Heard that one before,” Draco mutters, voice teasing. “It’s cool though, I can proofread for you so she doesn’t bite your head off.”

“You’re the best, Harry praises, opening up his textbook.

He still hasn’t gotten around to ordering a new one, partially because he likes that his looks so well-loved, but mostly because he’s lazy and doesn’t really care all that much.

Harry groans wen the page in question is covered in annotations and unofficial spells. “I can’t with this guy—why would you write it all directly in the book? Make yourself a cheat sheet or something, this is just—ridiculous. And these made up spells—what does he think they do? Do they actually work, do you think?”

Draco leans over to peer at the page in question, but straightens in his chair almost immediately. “Why do you have Uncle Sev’s writing all over your book?”

Harry’s jaw drops with a mixture of shock and horror. “The Prince bloke is _Snape_? Are you sure? How do you know that’s his writing?”

“Because I’ve gotten plenty of letters and birthday cards over the years, I know what my godfather’s handwriting looks like, moron—you should too, you saw it on the Potions chalkboard every day for five years. Do you really pay so little attention?”

Harry shrugs bashfully. “I dunno, I’ve just never thought of people’s handwritings as being particularly noticeable or unique, I guess. That’s wild, though.”

“But it makes sense,” Hermione adds thoughtfully, expression pensive. “Like we talked about last week, a lot of the comments are strategies we’ve used over the years—I assumed they were just potions techniques not in the book, but it does make more sense that Snape himself is the one who realized they were effective and thus incorporated them in his teaching.”

“Damn, I hate when the overgrown bat is actually a good teacher,” Ginny grumbles, winking when Draco gives her a look.

“Me too,” Harry agrees.

(Luna rolls her eyes at the both of them.)

/

They’re in Charms; Remus and Snape have collaborated to align their curricula—which everyone is confused and shocked by but is going well—so they’re doing further practice of nonverbal wandwork.

Blaise is the first to master his attempts, earning glares from both Draco and Hermione, though the irritation at not being first gives them the push to succeed moments later.

Padma also excels, giggling as she repeatedly makes her sister’s quill roll off the desk from across the classroom.

An owl appears at the window, and Remus brushes it off, until it begins tapping incessantly on the glass with its beak; it gets louder and louder, until it simply can’t be ignored.

Sighing, Remus presses a finger to his temple. “Miss Greengrass, if you would please open the window and give the letter to its intended recipient, who is not to open it until the _end_ of class.”

Daphne does so immediately, hesitating when she gets the window open. “Professor, it’s—it’s a Howler.”

The students all lean forward intently, eager to see its delivery; Daphne reaches to take it from the owl, and her eyes go wide. “I—Professor, it’s addressed to you. And Hermione?”

Hermione and Remus lock confused eyes, but it’s Harry who figures it out, barking out a laugh. “Come on, it’s gotta be Tonks!”

“Just like her mother,” Remus mutters, rolling his eyes. “Thank you Miss Greengrass—please give it here, then.”

He makes a face, huffing at the anticipation on all the students’ faces and Hermione’s exasperation as he tears open the envelope.

_“He’s here!” _Tonks’s voice rings through the room, earning a gasp from Harry as Hermione claps her hands together gleefully. _“The parasite has arrived! Merlin, the head of hair on this baby you would not _believe_—and not to be graphic, but the _pain_! I have half a mind to send Molly Weasley flowers sheerly out of respect.”_

Remus raises an eyebrow, unsurprised at the tangent.

_“We’ve named him Edward Arthur, after both his grandfathers, though I doubt we’ll ever call him anything but Teddy. His hair’s already started changing colors, Remus! Oh, morgana, this little boy is about to have the both of you wrapped around his little finger; it’s lucky, too, because otherwise I might resent the way he just took over my body for nine months and ripped me so thoroughly St. Mungo’s had to cast healing charms on some very tender—”_

_“Dora, my love, please stop talking now.”_

_“But Perce—”_

They’re whispering something where no one else can hear, and Tonks sighs before continuing. “_It has been brought to my attention that you’re both in class so I shouldn’t give much detail there, but just know that it was_ awful_. For a moment there I really thought I’d never be able to—”_

_“Nymphadora! I swear to merlin—”_

“I’m going to be fired for this,” Remus mumbles, though he can’t subdue the smile on his face.

_“Anyways, I’ve included muggle polaroids and a few magical photos as well, so the both of you can see your godson—he can’t wait to meet you already! Don’t bring too many books when you come to see him, yeah? Save it for when he’s old enough to retain it, you nerds. I love you! And you, Harry. Hermione, tell that muggle boyfriend of yours I say hi!”_

Hermione watches Draco’s careful smile from across the room.

_“I expect you to come with them, Ron,” _Percy adds, the smile audible in his voice. _“You’re just about the closest to sane this kid has from our side. He’ll need Uncle Ron to help him learn all about Quidditch and being a Weasley.”_

_“Bye! We love you! Don’t blow anything up!” _Tonks says by way of farewell, and the letter bursts into flames on Remus’s desk, leaving behind a stack of small photos.

“Well, then. Sorry for the interruption,” Remus apologizes to the class, though his joy shines through. “Please return to your practice, and I’ll be circulating if you need any clarifications or other support.”

They do so, though the room is bursting with whispers as everyone discusses the development; Hermione has to wipe at watery eyes.

Harry bumps her shoulder with his. “What’re you thinking?”

She sniffs. “Just—I’m so glad that there’s still good in the world, you know?” She rubs at her eye with her sleeves and tucks hair behind her ear. “We’ve been through so much shit, and everything feels so dark right now, and—it’s nice, that no matter how bad things seem, there’s still good out there. There can still be happiness, and light.”

She laughs through the tears, eyes bright. “Things are awful but there can still be a beautiful little baby with blue hair who I already love with my whole heart. I—I need the reminders, sometimes.”

He nods with understanding, leans his head on her shoulder and feels a bit of the weigh on his heart dissipate at the sight of the pictures clutched in her hand, the sleeping baby in Tonks’s arms while she laughs at the camera, Percy’s head leaning against hers—expression exasperated but eyes full of awe.

Beside them, Ron grins. “I have a nephew!” Harry and Dean pat him on the back in congratulation as he tells them all about how excited Molly is, the ridiculous outfits Fred and George have already bought for the baby—including but not limited to teen-tiny WWW merch.

Hermione eyes the inside of her wrist as writing appears; she waits a moment, to make sure no one has been looking at Draco as he wrote, before checking.

_Congratulations, love. I can’t wait to meet him, too—good to know the kid we’ll be raising if everyone else dies has made it into the world safely._

She can’t help the snort that bursts out of her, smiles at the thought despite its morbidity—the jokes the only way the world makes sense.

“Good day, huh?” Pansy calls to her from across the room, cheeky grin on her face.

(And it is.)

/

They’re in the Chamber doing work before the official study hall—which means not much is different but Draco is there _not _polyjuiced.

“What’s got you thinking so hard?” Ginny pokes Hermione in the side as she asks the question. “You okay?”

The older girl is jolted out of reverie, gives a half-hearted smile as she meets Ginny’s brown eyes. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just…can’t get my mind off our lesson with Dumbledore the other day. Something about it…”

(The injured hand held aloft at his side, the blasé attitude, ring on his desk—)

“I just feel like there’s something I can’t quite reach that my brain is trying to figure out.”

The ring had to be significant, to be the only seemingly useless object on his desk; and to be kept there, despite its break and imagery being too fucked up to see.

And why would such a high quality piece of jewelry be tarnished, anyway? Such a sharp cleaving had to be very intentional, and with a strong motivation, as though the ring itself were a threat—

“Oh, god. That’s it,” she whispers, before raising her voice. “Harry!”

He’s at her side immediately, eyes wide and searching. “What’s wrong?”

“His hand—it had to be the ring. They’re connected. Dumbledore, I mean,” she clarifies, frazzled as her mind moves three steps of ahead of her mouth, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. “The messed up one on his desk. It must’ve been cursed, or something, and caused the damage to his hand when he put it on, and then the only way to remove the curse from the stone itself was to _literally_ break it.”

Harry turns his eyes upward as he mulls over the suggestion; meanwhile, Draco twirls one of her curls around his finger with a frown. “But a curse that could cause that kind of damage would be detectable—and definitely for a wizard as proficient as Dumbledore. Why would he put on a ring without checking it for anything dangerous in the first place?” He sighs, grey eyes tired. “If he were that careless, ‘killing’ him wouldn’t be such an impossible task. Actually…” he trails off, eyes thoughtful.

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione purses her lips. “You just came up with an idea for one of your pretend attempts.”

“That I did,” he nods. “I’m going to think on it a bit.”

“Okay, so what would keep him from checking for potentially harmful curses?” Harry asks, trying to refocus his sister’s attention. “And why would the ring have been cursed in the first place? I mean, a majority of the time defensive enchantments like that are used to prevent muggleborns or non-wizards from touching them; Dumbledore’s a pureblood, obviously, so none of them would’ve had any impact on him, and if it were just a protective old family’s object he should’ve thought to cast diagnostics before touching it. It’s like when we were cleaning out Grimmauld, you know? All the old artifacts and jewelry had the protective curses, and we had to—”

“Fuck,” Hermione gasps out, because it _clicks_, just then, a resolute clang throughout her mind that drowns out everything else. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Harry that’s it.” She gapes, hands tugging at the roots of her hair desperately. “It’s one of them.”

“What do you—_oh_.” His eyes go wide, and she knows she’s right, because it’s _exactly_ like the locket—

(The ring was a horcrux.)

Which means that one more was destroyed—and that Dumbledore knows about them.

“This changes—everything,” Hermione whispers, ignoring the confused glances of the rest of their friends. “And the lessons, the trying to figure out who he is and his motivations…it’s to try and figure out what he would choose to be all of them. Oh, god.”

“Dad is literally going to lose his shit,” Harry mutters, trying to distract himself. “Damn. How do we even—where does this go? How does this end? How do we—”

“We’ll figure it out,” Hermione promises, as though her own heart isn’t racing.

Pansy clears her throat expectantly, eyebrows raised; the others are quiet, but clearly agree with her desire to be let in the know.

Hermione bites her lip, turning to Harry. “I—telling them all puts them in danger, but—I think the more people who know the better. That way even if something happens to us, others who know can carry out what needs to happen. All our eggs not in one basket, and all that.”

Harry nods in agreement, swiveling to face the rest of them with a serious expression. “Ever heard of a horcrux?”

/

Winky comes to hang out during their study session; Hermione attempts to command her to relax and not help with anything the whole time, but the elf levels her with a look and threatens to take all of Hermione’s own study materials if she does, so they find themselves at a reluctant impasse.

(God, does she love Winky.)

Hermione’s doing rounds around the room, making sure no one needs any help and checking in on the people she hasn’t spoken to in a while; Harry and Aaliyah are deep in conversation, their back and forth hissing almost as soothing as the sound of rain in the background of the ASA members all working and chatting.

Seamus says something to Hannah Abbott—it’s offhanded, which for him usually means offensive, so Hermione’s already heading towards them to reprimand him, but Astoria gets there first.

“Apologize, asshole!” She’s not very tall, but the force of her presence forces Seamus to meet her eye, and she doesn’t flinch when he scowls. “Don’t you dare ever insult her again, or I swear I’ll dismember you and feed the pieces to the Giant Squid. Hannah is the kindest person in this whole school, I won’t tolerate the likes of you acting like you’re better than her because she’s a Hufflepuff—people like you and I should be in _awe_ of Hufflepuffs!”

Hannah smiles softly. “It’s really okay, I don’t think he meant anything by it.”

“No, he insulted you, it’s unacceptable, he—”

“Tori.” Putting a gentle hand on Astoria’s shoulder, Hannah levels her with a look.

“Fine.” Astoria makes a face but pulls back, letting Hannah pull her into her arms even as she scowls at Seamus. “You’re lucky my girlfriend is so nice, Finnegan. Remember that next time you want to insult her for her kind heart, because my family has a marvelous garden and I could access _so_ many poisons that wouldn’t leave a trace of fair play, and—”

“_Tori_.”

“I mean, I’m so sorry I got a bit upset,” she smiels sweetly, batting her eyes when Seamus looks scared. “I apologize for being so aggressive. I’m just a bit defensive of my soul mate, I can be irrational.”

Hermione has to hold back chuckles at it—so obviously forced, but the years of society training make Astoria’s comportment so impeccable anyone who didn’t hear Hannah would believe it.

“Those are the pairings destined to take over the world,” Luna murmurs beside her. “Hufflepuffs who would die to take care of everyone around them, and the Slytherins who love them that would burn the world down to keep them safe. There’s a balance in it, I think. A beautiful kind of strength and power, and one person wanting to give themselves for the whole world and the other who would give the whole world for them.”

(Hermione finds herself staring, nodding in agreement—dreams of all they’ll go on to do.)

/

“You know,” Draco mumbles into Hermione’s hair, curled up in the RoR, “As much as I love calling you Juliet, and you’ll always be that first in my mind, I really do wish our younger selves had bothered to read the play before deciding on code names.”

A laugh escapes her. “Yeah. It could’ve been nice not to refer to each other as idiots in a comedy about humanity’s irrational decisions, perhaps. Especially given the age difference between them—I know it wasn’t uncommon at the time, but it’s still incredibly predatory.”

“Merlin, can you imagine?” Draco hums as she rubs his back gently. “Although Shakespeare himself was obviously incredibly talented. It’s a great play. Just not necessarily the one I would’ve liked to compare our own destiny to.”

“I did tell you from the very beginning it didn’t end well,” Hermione reminds him, smiling at the memory. “I’m still hoping we’ll get a happier ending than them. And I like to think neither one of us would immediately off themselves without taking a moment to think logically, even if we believed the worst.”

He snorts. “Yes, there’s that too. And the part where we’re actually in love, not merely catering to a week-long infatuation, which I think makes us already a bit more likely to end well than them.”

“Everything else isn’t in our favor, though.”

“I suppose.” His fingers trail along her arm, pausing when they get to where he knows the duplicate of his Dark Mark sits; he pulls the limb upward, before leaning his face forward to kiss the place on her skin where the horrific image sits. “I love you, Juliet. I’m so sorry that this is on your skin.”

“I told you already, I am happy to bear it with you.” Her voice is raspy but insistent. “It’s—not my favorite image in the world, obviously, but I don’t think of that when I see it. I think of you, and how brave you are, and all the good you’ve already done, and how proud and grateful I am to be bound with you. And if this is the price of the rest of it, then I’m glad to pay it.”

Draco nods, pressing his lips to her wrist once more.

“You’re going to figure this out,” she promises. “McGonagall’s already said she is at your disposal for making sure your attempts are believable but don’t cause lasting harm, and you know I will help in any way you need.”

“I know. I just—hate being this person. Knowing I’ll have to hurt people, even if it’s necessary to keep them all alive. I hate not knowing what’s best, or if my mother’s okay, or if we’ll make it out of all of this…” he sighs. “I know it’s not just me—we’re all thinking it. But it…it just feels so heavy, some days.”

Hermione nods, but stays quiet, content to let him vent and know that she’s there, that she’s listening.

Eventually, he calms down some, the angst ebbing as the tiredness overtakes him.

“We’ll get through this,” she promises him, just before he falls asleep. “We’ve made more horcrux progress, we have strong numbers, Luna’s expose is almost ready to go to print…it doesn’t feel it, but things are going to turn up. I know it.”

(And logically, she believes the words she says, she really does.)

(If only she could convince the heavy lingering weight in her chest the same.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from we belong by dove cameron
> 
> this story now only likes to come to me between 4 and 8 am so here we are lmao
> 
> hope life is treating all of you lovely humans well. xo, so much love


	31. not who I once was

A knock sounds on the dormitory door, and Hermione makes a face, confused; the boys couldn’t get up the staircase, and Ginny’s never been one to bother knocking.

The wood swings open to reveal Pansy, wringing her hands in an oversized sweatshirt, hair in a sloppy ponytail. “Hey.”

Hermione frowns at the way her friend’s shoulders curl inward. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve just—been having a hard time sleeping.” Pansy makes her way to sit on the bed beside Hermione as the Gryffindor in question brews in a cauldron on her nightstand. “Nightmares and paranoia and the usual. But they’ve been really bad, so I was wondering if—maybe I could stay with you tonight?”

“Of course!” Hermione moves to hug her friend’s shoulders, no questions asked. “Anything you need. I’m always glad for the company, in here.”

“I don’t want to—if you have plans with Draco…”

“I don’t.” Hermione looks her in the eye as she assures her. “And even if I did, your well-being is more important, to both him and I. He can cuddle with Blaise if he’s that desperate for someone.”

Pansy laughs half-heartedly, leaning her head on Hermione’s shoulder. “Love you.”

“I love you too. You own prime real estate in my heart.”

They’re quiet, for a moment; Pansy sighs, peering over the edge of the cauldron. “What are you working on—contraceptive potion?”

“Yep, I’m almost out of my current batch. I do a three month supply at a time—it’s how I used to have enough through summers. Even now, although at this point it’s habit and not necessity.” Hermione’s eyes are far away. “It’s so terrible it’s almost comical, that this is the one I’ve brewed the most over the years. I could make it in my sleep.”

Pansy hums with understanding, squeezing her friend’s hand tightly. “That’s why you got so good at potions so fast, first year. Why you cared about it so much.”

A nod from Hermione. “Why I want to go into healing now.” She laughs, and it’s—it should be dark, or sad, but she doesn’t have it in her to be sad anymore—all she can do is joke about it, or else it’s all too heavy. It’s easier to just—laugh. “I don’t have a single memory or facet of my personality that’s gone unaffected by it all.”

She snorts, turning to Pansy with a smile. “God, we’re so morbid and traumatically fucked up all the time. Tell me something good. How are you and Neville?”

Pansy’s cheeks flush pink, and she can’t help but smile at the thought. “Good. He’s—perfect.” She fidgets, repositioning her legs. “So sweet it feels impossible, sometimes. And—so incredibly understanding of all my eccentricities and needs and willing to wait as long as I want for anything and everything and—I know people always _say_ that anyone decent will be, but it doesn’t feel that way in practice, you know?”

With an emphatic nod, Hermione moves to put a stasis charm on her cauldron. “It seems like too much to ask of someone, even though logically you know that’s not true.”

“Exactly.” Pansy sighs with a smile, toying with the bracelet on her wrist Neville had gotten her from a small business in Hogsmeade a week prior. It’s already growing to be a comforting habit. “He is the sweetest person I’ve ever met; and he’s not afraid to call me out, when I’m projecting or lashing out as a coping mechanism. He doesn’t know details, or anything—he can just tell. Figures out my mind before I know it myself.”

“Is he…” she hesitates before asking, not sure if it’s a sensitive subject for them or not.

“My soulmate?” Pansy questions. “Not a clue. My parents made me write to mine the first day I had anything from him on my skin, tell him to leave me alone and never contact me again. They’ve always planned on arranging me with Draco or Crabbe, or something, for the alliance, like it’s the fucking fifteenth century.” She rolls her eyes, expression acidic. “So anyway, I don’t know. And I haven’t asked Neville about his, either—too nervous he’ll leave me for them, I guess. But regardless, even if it’s not endgame—he makes me happy.” Pansy smiles bashfully. “Really, really happy.”

“Good. You deserve nothing less, Pansy. And I can’t imagine anyone better for Neville, either.”

“Thank you.” Pansy rubs at her eyes, making a face. “Now if we can all just survive this war.”

“We’re closer than we were a year ago,” Hermione whispers. As if saying something positive can force them both to feel the optimism that eludes them.

Her friend sighs twirling the ends of her own hair. “If I have to go out, there’s not a better way I could imagine than sticking it to blood supremacists.” She bites her lip despite herself. “If I die…you’ll tell Neville, won’t you? That I love him? And Draco and Blaise and Gin and Luna, that they’ve made the hell the last year has felt bearable?”

Someone else would probably chide her, argue against the pessimism and planning for worst case scenarios, but—Hermione doesn’t.

(Doesn’t think it’s morbid to plan for what truly might happen, would always rather have an unnecessary hard conversation than be left without the right words, with wondering and wishing and pleading with death for a moment’s goodbye, if the worst comes.)

“I will,” she promises Pansy, grim smile on her face. “You’ll do the same for me? All of them, and my boys, and Sof, and—and Sirius—” she breaks off in tears before she can say anyone else’s name, lip trembling. “I’m not scared for myself, really. I spent too many years in hell, for that. But—_merlin_. They’ve all been through so much already.. I worry that one more loss might break them.” She brushes at her eyes, swallowing the sorrowful saliva that fills her mouth.

Pansy smiles sadly. “I’ve never heard you say Merlin before. You usually say god—or that muggle deity’s name, the one who died?”

“Huh.” Hermione laughs at her own expense. “I suppose I do. Muggle habit. Harry does it too. I think it, mostly; it’s only when I hear Ron or Sirius or Draco’s voice in my head that wizard colloquialisms come out, I think.” Cocking her head, she confesses, “I haven’t been writing to Sofia, as much. I want to, and I feel bad for not responding more thoroughly, but I—I don’t know how to pretend I’m not falling apart, and I don’t want her to see me crumble. She deserves—only the best, of everything.” She wrings her hands. “And that’s not me, right now. But I don’t know how to tell her that it’s _because_ I love her I don’t seem myself. Harry’s said the same, and I just—we both worry, so much. All we want for her is happiness.”

“She’ll understand when she’s older,” Pansy insists. Quiet for a moment, her eyes turn downward. “The others don’t know this, but—I have an older brother.”

Hermione’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t speak, sensing that if interrupted Pansy will lose her nerve.

“He’s a squib; my parents faked his death as a child so no one would know.” Her jaw clenches with anger, the kind that burns with a lifetime of built up resentment and frustration and hatred. “They’d never want society to know they’d produced a _defect_. It’s the only reason they didn’t keep trying for an heir, after me—they were too worried they’d produce another _muggle_.”

She shakes her head, tongue poking the side of her cheek with righteous rage. “As though Darrow is anything but perfect. He’s the strongest, kindest, most _good_ person in the entire world. Who cares if he has magic or not? How can that be a more important thing about a person than whether they have a heart of compassion?

“They had him tutored in secret, by another squib—they were able to educate him in both muggle and magical subjects, so he would know our world but be able to survive without magic. It was—well, exactly what you would imagine of bigoted parents whose child was like the people they hate so terribly.” She shrugs, because there are no words for the horror of it all. “They’ve never liked or loved me, but because of Darrow they were always—grateful, that I’d come out ‘_right’_. Treated him even worse after I came along—seven years after him, mind you.

“So the day he came of age, he was gone, with a note to them that said nothing but _‘I’m glad to not be magical so I can spend the rest of my life away from the likes of you. Go fuck yourselves.’_” A fond smile fills her face at the memory, how greatly it had pissed off their parents. “He left a letter for me as well, hidden in my favorite record’s album, with a charm so no one but me could read it. But I didn’t write him back for months.” The admission burns as it leaves her mouth. “I was so _mad_ at him, for leaving me behind. For leaving at all. It felt like it was meant to hurt me personally, like he just didn’t care that I was his sister, and lonely, and wanted to be with him. Even once I finally spoke to him, I resented him for it.”

“You were just a kid,” Hermione says gently, a hand on Pansy’s shoulder.

“Yes, but even still…I would’ve been mad no matter how old I was. It felt like betrayal. I gave him a lot of shit about it, for a long time. But as I got older, I understood—that he had to do what was best for him. That him sticking around for my benefit wouldn’t _actually_ have benefitted me, because he would’ve been miserable and living a half-life, and I would’ve been miserable _for_ him, and our house would’ve been even more toxic. As much as it hurt at the time, I know it was for the best now.” She fans at her face, trying to blink away the watery eyes. “_Anyway_, all of which to say, I know even if Sofia were hurt now, she would understand when she got older. Would only love and respect you for it more.”

The Gryffindor beside her nods slowly. “That makes sense. Do you—are you and Darrow close, now?”

“Yes—normally, at least.” Pansy makes a face. “Our parents can never know, of course, but we write all the time, and I usually sneak out once a week or so over summers to get lunch with him, if possible. He works in a—a muggle research lab, he calls it? And writes part time—books, the muggles call them ‘fantasy’.” She snorts, corners of her mouth quirking upward. “His wife owns a business, so they’re—amazing. Coolest people I know. But when Voldemort returned…well, he’d be a prime target. And my parents would be all too happy to sacrifice him to the cause. So I—cut off all communication. Told him I’d reach out when it’s safe.”

“That’s why they let you get away with so much dissent and ‘improper’ behavior, even though they’re on Voldemort’s side,” Hermione realizes, surprise coloring her tone. “They don’t want you to tell anyone about him.”

“Exactly.” Pansy smirks, sharklike. “Don’t you just love two-way blackmail?”

/

The first Quidditch match of the season, Harry is—nervous, for the first time he can remember.

Flying has always been the one thing that comes naturally to him; he’s never faltered, or struggled, it’s as easy as breathing.

(The pitch is the one place he can truly relax, let go of everything weighing on him—no matter who’s trying to kill him, or how dark his mind feels, none of it matters when he reaches for the snitch.)

But he feels pressure beyond himself, this time. It’s hard to zone out the way he usually does when he feels so responsible for everyone else, when this is _his _team.

Ron’s less anxious, for once, his confidence having been boosted a bit by tryouts and Draco’s persistent encouragement, and Katie, Ginny, and the new fourth year chaser are all clearly filled with adrenaline and more confident than anything, excited for the match to start. The new beaters are the only ones who look as anxious as Harry feels, and they both seem so young he can’t help but feel an impulse to mentor them.

And they’re up against Slytherin, naturally, so the whole school is on the edge of their seats, not to mention he’s flying against Draco.

(Which isn’t really the problem, because while Draco’s an incredible flyer he’s much more suited to Chasing and is only a Seeker at his father’s behest.)

But it _is_ historically the most skilled team, and what they _do_ lack skill-wise they make up fro with determination and animosity brought on by centuries of rivalry.

It’s a slow start—in theory allowing them to adjust, but honestly less than helpful because they’re all so wired with nerves and excitement, so thrilled to finally be back in the air.

(For this one thing to feel _normal_.)

“What’s got your eye, Potter? Trying to find a landing spot for when I knock you off your broom?”

Harry has to hold back a snort at Draco’s taunting, though they’re high enough, far enough away from everyone else as they search for the snitch, that he risks an eye roll, one Draco is long accustomed to (as he earns them from the dark haired boy frequently). “Well even if you did, Malfoy, I wouldn’t mind so long as I could keep the bones in my arm this time.”

“Eugh, merlin, don’t remind me about that!” Draco mimes gagging. “I nearly threw up in the middle of the pitch that day.”

“_You _did?! Imagine if it were actually your _arm!_ And it was because of your elf, anyway, so I don’t even want to hear it.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Draco purses his lips, but Harry knows he’s fighting the urge to laugh at the memory of Dobby’s poorly executed attempts to protect him at Draco’s request. “What do you say you let me catch the snitch just this once so Slytherin leaves me alone?”

Harry tilts his head, considering it as his eyes follow the clouds aimlessly. “Nah. You’d hate to win because I let you—you’d secretly hate me for it the rest of your life. Besides, I have a reputation to uphold. I’m captain, now! I have to prove I’m good enough to deserve it.”

“Not like there was ever any doubt of that. You get plenty of special treatment, but even I’ll admit your Quidditch success is all you, irritating as it is.”

The Gryffindor scrunches his nose up in discomfort at the compliment, unused to them as he is even after years of his dads trying to retrain his brain. He turns his gaze away from Draco, eyes downward as he avoids uncomfortable eye contact, cheeks flushed.

“Potter, even if we win, which I unfortunately doubt, it won’t be because of you. Not because of the team you’ve put together, either—it’s strong, except the beaters, but the rest of you really are good enough to make up for them being new and unsure if you try hard enough. Are you actually worried about the match?”

A small smile forms on Harry’s face, and he says, “You know, I _was_!” before darting downward.

His broom shoots toward the pitch at top speed until a yard above the ground, when he jerks upward with a triumphant grin.

The snitch tugs at his grip, but he holds tight until Madam Hooch has finished blowing her whistle, laughing joyfully when the rest of the team tackles him into the grass.

(He'll have bruises, for sure, but these—these are worth having. Worth keeping.)

Draco scowls at him, but Harry smiles back, knowing they’ll have a rematch eventually.

(And the world may be going to hell, and his mind may be full of darkness, but he can still smile about something as simple as Quidditch, and that is—_everything_.)

/

Ron is bouncing on his heels with excitement. “Finally, something _useful_!”

Hermione levels him with a look, and he holds up his hands apologetically. “Sorry, I know, it’s all important, this just feels—more immediate, yeah? Like, if you can apparate away you don’t _need_ to win a duel.”

“That’s fair, I suppose.” Hermione frowns. “I hate that we’re not all learning together. I mean, I understand the age restriction for the actual license, but it seems unfair that a matter of months’ difference in birthdays means Harry and Pansy and everyone else born late doesn’t get to learn for another year—_especially_ when we’re on the brink of a war.”

“Yeah, especially seeing as it’s not exactly like driving,” Dean agrees, expression annoyed. “There’s not really a way to practice at home over summers, or anything.”

“Maybe it’s something we can work on in our—study group,” Neville’s careful voice suggests. “Even just a better understanding of theory and the steps involved could save someone’s life in action.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Hermione’s mind begins moving a million miles an hour. “I’ll have to look into the way it’s tracked, if we’d be able to practice in the Chamber without them detecting it; it would be risky, but…worth it.”

(Especially for muggleborn students, with targets on their backs who are sitting ducks away from Hogwarts, whose families don’t have a semblance of an ability to protect themselves against the monsters liable to darken their doorstep.)

Across the room, Blaise is razzing Draco about something, but he’s not taking the bait, much; he’s tuned out of the lesson, eyes dark and jaw clenched.

(Worrying about his upcoming “attempt” on Dumbledore’s life, Hermione knows; he _has_ to do it, but managing to without anyone getting caught in the crossfire…)

She attempts to tune out, during the instruction itself; to focus so deeply on the lesson she has no energy left over to think about anything else.

But it’s really quite repetitive, and nearly word for word what every text on apparition has to say in terms of both directions and first-timer tips—if it weren’t mandatory for licensure, she wouldn’t even bother coming to the rest of the sessions.

They’re only working on the first step today, and she finds herself helping Terry and Lavender when they’re struggling—both people who don’t much enjoy abstract, like herself.

She makes a mental note to mention it to Harry, tries to feel hopeful about what this might mean for all of them, as they enter the chaos around them

(Tries not to think about the way she feels eyes watching her all the while.)

/

Draco can’t speak, when they wake up; his entire body is visibly riddled with anxiety.

It’s so unlike him—Hermione’s struck with realization.

(This is it—the first day he’ll “_try_” to kill Dumbledore.)

(It’s the only thing that could possibly have him so terrified; the potential to harm another person.)

And he’s not telling her, just in case he’s caught—so that no matter what, she can never be held accountable for his crimes.

(It’s—she doesn’t believe in much, in this world, but she’s never had to doubt Draco’s love. Not for a single moment.)

“I have to go.” His whisper is broken, limbs robotic as he tugs on a button up shirt.

She nods, biting her lip as she searches for the right words. “You borrowed the cloak from Harry, right?”

Draco eyes her, because he’d never _told_ her he was going to, but it’s really not all that surprising that she figured him out. He nods.

“Good. You—do whatever you have to do to stay safe, okay?” She presses herself into him until his tense limbs wrap around her in reply. “This is not you. What you do today is not who you are—it is you protecting yourself, your mother, the role you’re playing for the Order—you’ve already helped save so many lives, Draco.”

He swallows heavily, and she _knows_ he doesn’t believe her, thinks himself to be the worst of society. Is terrified of anyone getting hurt in the crossfire, and especially by his hand.

“You can do this,” she promises. “I believe in you. We’ll be through this hellscape soon, yeah?” Stroking his jaw with her thumb, she presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Do this, and we’ll all be here waiting for you. Loving you.”

Draco toys with a loose strand of hair without a word. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

Hermione takes comfort in that, that he’s at least planning to meet her later, rather than shut himself off from the world the way she knows he wants to when he’s so overcome with self-loathing and despair.

She makes her way back to Gryffindor tower disillusioned, meeting up with Harry, Ron, and Ginny just as they’re getting ready to leave.

She doesn’t tell them, hoping to likewise keep them blissfully unaware of what the day means, but they can tell something’s up; she’s oddly quiet, even more jumpy than usual.

Neville meets them for lunch at The Three Broomsticks, though Pansy and Luna are off on some hike to look for crumple-horned snorkacks that Luna had been thrilled about, Pansy having agreed to tag along.

They drink, and eat, and talk about anything and everything to distract themselves from their actual problems—hours, they waste away, trying to imagine for just a bit that it’s a normal year. A normal Saturday.

After a few butterbeers, when their cheeks are red and their stomachs are warm and the world feels just a little less heavy, they begin making their way back to the castle.

Ron and Neville are in the midst of a deep conversation about some memory of a birthday party for Susan Bones when they were young, the kind every little wizarding kid was invited to solely for them all to get social interaction.

Ginny’d opted to hit Quidditch Quality Supplies with Dean and Cho; Harry’s humming some old muggle song that’s been stuck in his head all morning, and Hermione’s thoughts are a million miles away.

So they’re all a bit distracted—it takes them a moment to notice the argument a few yards ahead of them.

_“What the hell? This isn’t like you, Katie—what could you possibly have gotten that’s so important?”_

Harry’s head pops up, brows furrowed in concern. “Katie Bell? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admits with a frown. “She and Leanne have never had any drama, them fighting seems weird.”

(It doesn’t even cross her mind, then. It’s so disconnected.)

They speed up, trying to catch up to where the two girls are now physically fighting, in any attempt to help, Katie’s friend reaching for the brown package in hand.

“You can’t!” Katie screeches with a shrill voice, pure panic lining her body. “Don’t touch it, you _can’t touch it!_”

“Katie,” Ron calls out nervously. “Why don’t you just calm down, we can all talk about this together.”

“No!” She tries to run, but Leanne finally manages to grip the package. “No, you can’t, you can’t, don’t—”

Leanne pulls out her wand, hitting the paper with a slicing hex, and it’s then that Katie tries to adjust her grip. Her hand grazes the side of something shiny within, and then—

(Then she’s screaming. _Agony._)

Hermione rushes to her side, smoothing the hair at Katie’s forehead as she attempts to take stock of the scene.

When she glances towards her hands, her stomach drops, catching sight of a necklace within.

(A familiar necklace she’d watched her boyfriend purchase just a few months prior.)

But this is—not what he’d intended, she knows it. Whatever had made Katie so adamant about not allowing Leanne to touch it, had been intended to protect Katie and everyone around her from the necklace’s curse.

She attempts to cast the few healing spells she knows, the ones she’s preemptively studied for healing school; when that doesn’t work, she provides the one semblance of comfort she can offer. _“Stupefy.”_

Katie’s entire body relaxes as she goes unconscious, unaware of the pain if for just a little while.

“God.” Hermione rubs at her eyes, blinking back the horror of the moment. “I’m going to levitate her so we can get her to the castle. Harry, Ron, can one of you—levitate the necklace? _Don’t _touch it, it’s obviously—cursed.”

Harry and Ron nod immediately; Ron levitates the book, meeting Hermione’s eyes with a bittersweet smile as he casts _wingardium leviosa_.

(She’d lectured him back then it would be important to learn, but they’d never imagined it being in a situation so awful as this.)

Meanwhile, Harry comforts Leanne, soft voice whispering soothing words as she staggers forward, unable to rip her eyes from her friend.

McGonagall’s suspicious, when she’s called to the Hospital Wing as Katie’s head of house.

She meets Hermione’s eyes—broken gaze, the hopeless sorrow and frustration because it’s all just so horrible and there’s no way _out_—and the younger woman can tell her professor just _knows_.

Before Hermione, Harry, and Ron head out, McGonagall waves to catch her attention. _“My office. Eight o’clock. Him too.”_

And she knows she should be nervous, and especially on his behalf—but she doesn’t have it in her to feel anything but numb.

She walks back with the boys and writes to him; pacing and tossing and turning in her favorite armchair in the Gryffindor common room until just before eight.

Disillusioning herself, she slides out the door, ignoring the portrait’s cries of confusion at her invisible presence. She’s shivering with nerves and exhaustion as she makes her way to the professor’s office.

Draco must’ve already entered, still beneath the cloak, because as soon as she closes the door behind her, the professor waves her wand to lock it, before Hermione can even remove her own disillusionment.

They’re both seated on the other side of the desk, and Hermione knows they’re both bracing themselves for McGonagall to scream—

But instead, she softly says, “What happened?”

“What?” Draco rasps, eyes already welling with tears.

“Tell me what happened,” McGonagall orders, voice firm but not angry, “so that we can make sure it doesn’t happen like this again.”

Draco opens and closes his mouth before collapsing in on himself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Hermione’s at his side instantly, one hand stroking his hair while the other rubs circles on his back. “Hey, you didn’t mean to hurt her. It’s okay, Draco. This isn’t—”

“Don’t tell me it isn’t my fault when we all know it is, Hermione!” he snaps.

She flinches away from his harsh tone, and he gives her an apologetic wince but doesn’t take back the words.

“I bought the necklace. I’m the reason she had it. It’s no one’s fault but mine that she’s hurt, now. And I—” he swallows heavily, rubbing at red eyes. “I have to live with that for the rest of my life. I can never take it back.”

McGonagall clears her throat, locking her gaze on him. “Mister Malfoy. First and foremost, whatever your position may be at the moment, I have no doubt in my mind you did everything in your power to ensure no one but Albus was hurt. Did you not?”

“I—” Draco takes a deep breath, trying to subdue the hiccups he’d burst into. “I had to imperio her to bring it, but—I made sure to order her not to touch it, or let anyone else to. To do whatever it took to make sure no one but him touched it. Even cast a spell to not allow any hand but his could physically open the paper. But the slicing hex…” he shakes his head, meeting her gaze with desperate eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought it would be enough, and it—it wasn’t and now she’s—I did this. Merlin, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Draco.” McGonagall’s eyes are sad, but her voice doesn’t waver. “We’re at war. I am—horribly sorry that Miss Bell was injured. I would take her suffering on myself if such a thing were possible. But the fact of the matter is that what you’re doing, however dark and awful it may seem, is necessary for good to win. If you _weren’t _taking these steps, we would be…in far, far more dire straits.”

Hermione watches her soul mate carefully, the denial and hopelessness in every line of his face. The disbelief of Minerva’s statement.

“Your information about Greyback’s planned attack on the eastern village last week gave everyone time to evacuate. You know the Montgomery girls?” The professor asks, brows raised. “Their mother lives there with their little brother—he’s just five, and exactly the bastard’s sick taste. He’s alive and unharmed, because of you. As is the entire rest of their community. A month before that, you got us word about the raid through muggle Surrey—more than twenty muggles whose injuries would’ve been fatal were saved. The Order arrived before the Death Eaters were able to finish the devastation—and managed to take out several key players. Who knows how many lives they could’ve ended, throughout the rest of the war.” She sets her jaw. “I don’t believe that people are collateral damage, and I am—_horrified_that it’s come to this, students bodies as the battleground. But this is the reality we’re in. This is all we have to work with, all we can do. And so we must, even if it kills us inside.”

Draco takes a deep breath, chest trembling, but nods in understanding.

“You’re both soldiers, now. You weren’t alive for the last war, but this…this is only the beginning of the casualties. We will all have done things that make our stomachs lurch, by the end. And perhaps our souls will be tainted, but—” the older woman sighs, for one looking her age, the weariness weighing so very heavily on her heart. “But I have to believe it’s all worth it. That we’re creating a better world.”

“A better world for our children,” Hermione whispers, leaning her head onto Draco’s shoulder. “Somehow. Anything is worth making sure they never know this darkness. This pain.”

He squeezes her hand, and she knows he agrees—know they’re on the same page.

(Knows they’d both rather die here and now, go out fighting before ever living their lives, than to bring their children into a world so difficult and painful.)

(They’ll do whatever it takes, to make sure they never have to; to make sure Sofia can grow up safe, that the first years who look so small will never have such old eyes by seventeen, aged from the trauma, the horrors their entire generation has grown up in.)

“Okay?” McGonagall asks.

Even as his fists clench with the emotions suffocating him, Draco nods—there is no other way. However horrible it feels, this is best case scenario. As good as they can hope for.

(He’ll do better, next time.)

“Okay.”

/

She doesn’t warn them.

She’s not at breakfast—not unusual, as she’s often off doing one odd thing or another, and Harry doesn’t appear worried or surprised at her absence, so Hermione doesn’t think anything of it.

Harry’s just lifting a glass of pumpkin juice to his lips when the mail arrives; but something is…_different_.

There are days with more mail than usual, of course.

But today, the windows darken as nothing short of a _swarm_ of owls makes their way into the Great Hall.

Nearly every student is accosted, some receiving multiple parcels and envelopes and copies.

“What on _earth_,” Hermione wonders aloud quietly, Harry equally confused beside her.

Hermes flies in between them rapidly, dropping a newspaper clipping just beside Ron’s plate before zooming away; by the time Hermione and Harry receive their own hastily written letter from Sirius, Ron’s choking on a mouthful of eggs.

“She’s done it. Oh, merlin’s _pants_—she’s fucking _done it_.”

The entire hall is abuzz, volume much higher than the usual conversation, some students shrieking and gasping all around. Even professors aren’t immune, hurriedly conversing amongst themselves, eyes wide with shock and worry.

It’s so noisy and chaotic, Hermione’s not quite sure she’s heard him right, for a moment. “Who’s done what, now?”

Ron shakes his head, face pale but lively as he slaps the article before them with shaky hands.

_“Lord or Liar?” _she reads the headline aloud, voice high pitched like it hasn’t been in years as she feels her heart race. Harry sucks in a gasp beside her._ “Voldemort’s True Identity Revealed: The Half-Blood Behind the Supremacy Hoax”_

On her other side, Ginny, like her brother, appears both thrilled and terrified. “This changes…”

“Everything,” Neville finishes for her, eyes alight with wonder. “This changes everything.”

Silently, Harry checks at his skin, frantic as he searches for a message from his soul-mate as the impact of her words rebounds through the wizarding world, breathing growing more shallows when he finds no ink across his body.

(A reverberation shakes the hall as a dormitory on the opposite side of the castle explodes, leaving nothing but splinters and flame in its wake.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from you are more by tenth avenue north
> 
> hi friends, I hope the world is treating you okay.
> 
> I finally have the rest of the hbp era laid out more ~concretely~ so the next few updates will (hopefully) come a bit quicker, although I just started a new job and have a lot going on w my personal life//trash MH, so bear with me if a take a hot minute to get adjusted, I promise I will keep them coming as fast as possible (im fr so excited for the rest of this story)
> 
> thank you for your continued reading/support//I adore you. see you soon.


	32. with a thousand lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry that last cliffhanger was a bit evil, it’s all out of love

Harry’s sprinting away from the table before she can even think about moving—Hermione and Ginny are hot on his heels, though Hermione lags behind, not in nearly as good of shape as them.

She arrives at Ravenclaw tower moments after them, chest heaving.

(That is, she arrives at what _was_ Ravenclaw tower.)

The door is swung open, smoke and ash slipping out, and Harry’s hysteric, muttering _“no, no, no, no, no”_.

She doesn’t have it in her to stop him as he rushes inside, pulling his shirt up over his nose and mouth but coughing heavily nonetheless.

Ginny’s silent—receding from the world, as she does when things go bad. just moving as fast as is humanly possible through the rubble, frantically levitating every fallen beam and brick.

“She has to be here,” Hermione whispers to herself, though she doesn’t quite believe it. “Maybe she already got up and went to the Hospital Wing, or—or something.”

(None of them will be able to handle the alternative.)

“Lu!” Harry’s screaming, now, so much and so loud that his voice grows raspy. “Luna! Lu where are you?!”

Ginny even goes so far as to try to accio the other girl, just—moving constantly.

(As though if she keeps moving she’ll keep any horrible news from coming.)

They make it back to the doorway when they’ve upturned every piece of rubble there is, all filled with hopelessness.

“She—she must be—”

“Don’t say it,” Harry practically roars, eyes wild with terror and concern. “She can’t be. We would’ve found a—a body.”

A throat clears in the doorway, and they all jump; Remus’s expression is grim. “You three need to come with me to the Headmaster’s office.”

“But Dad, Luna—”

“A lot has happened, Harry, but it’s not safe to discuss here. Trust me.” They exchange a look; Harry clearly wants to press the matter, but Remus is unyielding.

They all speed walk behind him, Harry shaking with anxiety and adrenaline and the uncertainty of it all; Hermione’s fairly certain Ginny’s in shock. As for her own feelings…

(Nothingness. She’s numb, hasn’t even truly processed any of the day’s events, yet.)

The hallways feel muted, and Remus is moving so quickly she’s nearly running to keep up. Her heartrate is rapid by the team the professor is whispering the password to let them all into the headmaster’s chambers.

Harry’s ready to explode when they make their way inside, and he’s opening his mouth to demand answers when the air rushes out of him at the sight of Luna, seated beside Professor Snape.

He nearly falls over his own feet in his haste to get to her, relieved tears spilling from his eyes. “Lu! Thank god, I—” He sucks in a deep breath as her arms wind around his neck, one hand beginning to rub his back as he trembles. “I thought I lost you. Oh, my god, I thought I lost you.”

“I’m okay,” Luna promises, voice gentle. “I’m perfectly fine, Harry.”

“Not to sound ungrateful,” Hermione says with wide eyes, “Because obviously I love you and am so, so glad you’re okay, but—Luna, how are you _alive_?”

“I had planned on staying in the tower and doing some research this morning, but at the last minute I got a note from a friend so I ended up spending the morning at the lake and catching up with a few friends of mine that are merpeople—and Shelly, of course.”

“Shelly?” Ginny asks fainty.

“The giant squid,” Luna says, like this is obvious. “Anyway, I had no idea about the explosion until Professor Snape showed up and disillusioned me and escorted me back to the castle.”

Dumbledore clears his throat, waving for all of them to take a seat. “Voldemort is under the assumption his attempt on Miss Lovegood’s life was successful. I believe it is in her best interests that we not let him know otherwise.”

“You want—to fake Luna’s death?” Hermione clarifies for Harry’s benefit, watching the way his brows pull together out of the corner of her eye. “Why is that necessary?”

“Miss Lovegood has cost him a great deal of support and prestige today,” Snape speaks up, drawl just a bit more speedy than usual. “The Dark Lord does not tolerate any degradation of his name, nor any exposure of weakness on his part. If he knew she survived this attempt, he would not relent in attacks until he saw her corpse for himself. The speed with which he was able to uncover her true identity and send the explosives to Ravenclaw tower, the resources he used to get through our wards—all of it is a testament to just how angry today’s article made him.”

Ginny frowns. “Where will she go? Obviously there isn’t exactly a time frame for him to forget about it—if she has to keep from being seen publicly for as long as Voldemort’s alive she can’t exactly remain at Hogwarts.”

“She’ll be going into hiding.” Remus’s expression is grim. “She had to stay in hiding until the war’s end; because Tonks Manor already has many precautions for Harry’s sake, she and her father will be residing there for the foreseeable future. Andy and Sirius have already begun preparing. And no one outside of this room and the other members of the Manor can know she’s alive—that means the three of you will be expected to grieve. It is _imperative_that your acting be perfect; if anyone suspects you are not mourning her, Luna’s life will be in jeopardy.”

“Not even the rest of the Order will be told?” Hermione asks, brows drawn together with concern.

“It’s too much of a risk,” Remus replies, being as delicate as he can, though the subject matter is urgent. “Harry, Hermione, the two of you will begin your Christmas break now—that way the Portkey will be explained away as yours, and Luna’s departure won’t be detectable.”

It’s only three weeks earlier than break was intended to start, and definitely would be the course of action taken if she truly had died, but it feels—monumental.

(Like something bigger is happening, in the war.)

Dumbledore nods; while his expression is serious, he seems—unbothered, by the turn of events.

(It makes Hermione want to go full muggle and punch him in the nose so hard it shatters beneath her hand.)

“We’ll be releasing an official statement confirming her death on campus and the destruction of the tower in just a few hours,” he tells them, even as he scribbles on a parchment on his desk. “Prepare yourselves.”

“Can’t we at least tell Ronald?” Luna pipes up, gaze far away. “All of this—it means that it worked. It was his idea for me to write the expose, he deserves to know. And—he’ll blame himself for my death, if he doesn’t.”

“Any unnecessary passing of the knowledge that you live is too big a risk. If one of you were to be compromised—”

“Ron would _never_ betray us, not even if he were tortured.”

“No one here believes he would,” Remus says gently, giving Dumbledore a look to get him to stop talking. “But unfortunately, he’s never become as accomplished at Occlumency as the other three of you who will need to keep the secret—he’s hardly passable at mental shields, however wonderful his strengths. It’s too dangerous for him to know; and knowing Ron, I think he’d rather be left out of the loop than potentially be the reason Voldemort _does _succeed in killing Luna, however accidental.”

It’s a bitter pill to swallow; they’re all reluctant as they shove down further arguments.

(Dumbledore they’ll always disbelieve, but if Remus is saying this...it’s truly in their best interests, as much as it hurts.)

“We need to proceed before the Ministry arrives,” Snape mutters stiffly.

Remus nods, reaching to hug Harry and Hermione. “I’ll see the three of you when class lets out next week. Give everyone my love.” He turns to Luna with a grim expression. “I’m sorry you’re in this position, Luna, but know that what you did today was very brave. Reckless, but very brave. It may very well help our side win the war.”

“Thank you, Professor. I expect I’ll be seeing you soon.”

He gives a small smile in return. “I’m afraid I need to make the announcement while the headmaster and Professor Snape deal with the ministry.—and start working with Minerva on arrangements for the Ravenclaws.”

Dumbledore raises a hand. “Miss Weasley, if you’d be willing to stay and attest to having witnessed Miss Lovegood’s death, it will go a long way in securing her safety.”

“Of course, Headmaster.” She throws her arms around Luna, squeezing tightly.

(Tears pool in her eyes as the reality of the situation begins to sink in.)

“Watch out for nargles,” Luna teases, eyes twinkling. “Also, tell Neville and Pans they’re soul mates, will you? They’re both so nervous and it’s not necessary. They need to know so they can communicate going into this war.”

Ginny laughs through her tears, the sound muffled by her best friend’s shoulder. “I love you. Take care. Make this lot write me letters on your behalf, will you?”

“I will. I love you too.”

The three of them reach out to touch the ratty newspaper Dumbledore holds out—

And then they’re spinning, flying, nauseous, until they’re thrown into the grass just outside Andromeda’s wards

/

It doesn’t hit till they’re inside—then they all nearly collapse onto the couch, all of the energy draining from their bodies.

Andy and Ted are there in a moment, Ted brandishing water bottles and snacks he holds out and threatens to force them to consume at wandpoint. “You’re all in shock, and I won’t have anyone fainting unnecessarily under my roof.”

“Dad told you?” Harry asks timidly, the exhaustion visible in his eyes.

“He did,” Andy confirms. “We’re very glad you’re okay, Luna, and you’re more than welcome to stay here for as long as you need. The wards and protections are nearly impenetrable, and we’re going to cast a Fidelius as well in just a bit.”

Hermione lets out a deep breath for what feels like the first time all day. “Where’s Sirius?”

“Running some errands for the Order—we haven’t been able to send a Patronus yet, because what he’s doing is rather sensitive, but he should be back soon.”

The floo flares up, and Hermione tenses until Tonks’s voice calls, “Just me!”

It’s a mark of how much the day has fucked with her head that it doesn’t even cross her mind that the older woman would’ve brought her son until he’s right there, a cooing form with green hair in her arms as she enters the room.

“Oh,” Hermione gasps, and it’s—she’s loved him since she knew he existed, of course, but the moment she meets his eyes it absolutely _overpowers her_, the love she feels for him. “Teddy.”

Tonks grins at her, moving her arms to hold the baby out. “Go on, then.”

Hermione’s on her feet instantly, reaching to pull his tiny form to her chest; she’s careful to keep an arm under his neck, the way she’d read to in the baby books she’s immersed herself in in preparation for his arrival. “Hi, you. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

He smiles up at her, and the second his gaze lands on her his own tufts of hair go brown with blonde at the ends, waving as much as they can for as little hair as he has.

“Thought you lot could use some serotonin,” Tonks explains. “You good to watch him while I go outside with Mum and cast the Fidelius?”

“You’ll have to pry him out of her hands,” Harry says teasingly, though he’s stroking Teddy’s hair with such adoration it’s clear he won’t be giving him up voluntarily any time soon, either.

An hour or so later, once the Fidelius is cast and Sirius is home, Luna retreats to her room to process and come down from the day’s events.

(Dumbledore had sent a message to her father that morning, imploring him to go into hiding and allow the Order to protect him; he’d refused, insisting he wouldn’t live in fear and remaining at home.)

(Luna hadn’t seemed surprised, but received the news with a resigned sadness, before asking to be left alone for a bit.)

All the while, she doesn’t show a hint of regret; she clearly doesn’t love her current circumstances, but never for a second doubts she’s done the right thing. Wouldn’t take it back even if she could.

(It makes Hermione respect her even more.)

Hermione and Sirius are in the living room with a movie on, though they’re not paying it much attention; Harry’s asleep, head on her lap where she’d been stroking his hair to soothe him, the distress consuming his mind at his soulmate’s peril.

“Are you okay?” Sirius asks, giving her a look. “You always force yourself to be strong for him, but be honest. How are you?”

“I’m—” she’s on the verge of saying _fine_, but his gaze is burning into her and the emotions are threatening to drown her, and she lets a shuddering breath out. “Not great. Struggling. My own mental state isn’t the best, and Draco’s going through hell, and now this…and this is only the beginning.” Her voice breaks. “Sirius, people are going to die. I know it, this is war, and they will, and I don’t—I don’t know how we’ll get through it when it’s already taking everything we have just to keep breathing.”

He grimaces, but nods with understanding, offering a mug of hot tea with one hand while the other moves to mute the tv. “It won’t be easy, kitten. It’s—all we can do is take it one day at a time.” A small smile fills his face. “Lily—merlin, but she could be cheesy, that witch. When my brother died, I about lost it; was ready to kick the bucket myself, start running around till Death Eaters would attack so I could take some of them out with me. But Evans, she dunked my head in a cold shower, slapped me across the face till I sobered up. And then she looked me in the eye and said, _‘Sirius Black, you have been through too much bullshit to give up now. You didn’t make it this far to only make it this far,’_.”

Hermione can’t help the grin that creeps onto her lips. “I think I would’ve loved her.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” His eyes are so wistful it hurts to witness. “Good thing that she said it, too, because Prongs was hyperventilating in the bathroom thinking I might try something and he wouldn’t be able to stop me. Gave me a right talking to when she was done with me, asking what the hell would he do if I were gone, who would protect Harry if he and Evans—” he swallows heavily at the reminder, shaking his head. “Well, anyway. I think of it whenever things get bad again.”

He clears his throat, meeting Hermione’s eyes again. “We have made it through far too much hell for this to be it, Hermione. And I won’t lie to you, it’s going to be—horrible. This isn’t even a fraction of what we’ll face. But we _will _make it through. And when we do, it’ll be a better world. A better life than you or I have ever had.”

“I hope so,” Hermione whispers.

/

The next Order meeting is—chaos.

It’s the day after Hogwarts’s winter break begins, so almost everyone there is under the impression Luna’s dead, of course, so Harry and Hermione, have to act as though they’re mourning.

(Not that it’s exactly difficult, given that they’re both severely clinically depressed, but nonetheless—it feels wrong, accepting everyone’s heartfelt condolences. Watching the twins blink back tears.)

The only reason they’re able to bear it is because according to all of their informants, the article’s impact has been—explosive.

Voldemort’s attempts to recruit have abruptly plateaued, his numbers even lessening some, and a significant number of previously “neutral” parties in positions of power have publicly come out as against the Death Eaters.

(It’s no wonder he wanted Luna dead.)

And it’s Cho’s first meeting—apparently she’d reached out about joining several months ago, and was only recently vetted, so this is the first time she’s been away from school to attend.

(It’s the kind of thing that makes Hermione believe they might just win—one more face from a different house, one more familiar face turned ally.)

“The girl was brave, but publishing that was idiotic,” one of the older members mutters. “Practically asking for him to kill her.”

(When Hermione’s head jerks up to glare at him, she realizes it’s Aberforth, of all people; has to refrain from spewing profanities his way.)

Harry’s on his feet in an instant, brandishing his wand with a steady hand, eyes deadly with rage. “Say that again, I fucking dare you.”

“Harry,” Hermione reaches for his shoulder, grip gentle. “You know I don’t disagree, but maybe threatening someone in the middle of the meeting isn’t the best course of action.”

“It’s not my fault he decided to insult my soul mate who just _died_ for our cause,” Harry snarls, voice echoing across the room. “He was _practically asking for _me to kill him.”

She bites her lip to keep from laughing at the comment, knowing it won’t help, however much she loves when her brother’s sass comes out.

“She made her choices,” Aberforth insists, arms crossed, looking unthreatened by Harry’s wand. “It did our side some good, and I’m not trying to be insensitive to your loss, boy, but what else did she expect to happen?”

Harry moves to bound forward, murder in his eyes, and Hermione and Fred both hastily grab an arm each to hold him back.

“Luna ‘ad more goodness in a single _finger_ than you ‘ave in your entire _body_,” Fleur declares, her voice commanding the room. “You ‘ave no place to judge the actions others take to stop a war you ‘ave done next to nothing to prevent. You stand for _nothing_, and ‘ave the audacity to shame the memory of someone who ‘elped the Order to make more progress than we ‘ave in the alst two years in a single day? I do not zink so. ‘Eef I ‘ear your voice again, I will show you _exactly_ why I was Triwizard champion. And I will leave only bones be’ind.”

Harry beams at her, and Hermione raises an impressed eyebrow, making a mental note to consult with her about effective curses later.

“Well put, Miss Delacour,” McGonagall nods firmly, before calling the room’s attention back to her.

The rest of the meeting is fairly tame, though the tension remains, simmering through the air as they discuss next steps, current threats, and recent actions on Voldemort’s part.

They mention a prison break, and Hermione’s stomach drops—they assume she’s fearful of Lucius being free because of the battle at the ministry, reassure her that he won’t have a chance to get to her.

(But it’s so much worse than that; her mind is flooded with worst case scenarios of what her soul mate might be enduring at any given moment.)

After the meeting, she and Harry rise to walk the other younger members to the door.

“Thanks for vouching for me to become a member,” Cho says to Cedric with a grateful smile, hugging him happily.

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” Harry says with a surprised expression, obtuse as ever.

“Oh, Ced is one of my very favorite people,” Cho beams. “Helped me when I got lost the first week of my first-year—not to mention he’s brilliant at brewing and I’m shite at it, so he’s been a godsend, making my estrogen potions until I was of age and could get my procedure done at St. Mungo’s.”

Harry raises impressed eyebrows. “Nice. I’m also a bit trash at potions, so if Hermione’s ever busy I might bug you.”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Cedric reaches out to ruffle his hair. “That’s fine. Although you really _should _have at least a basic understanding of brewing, because otherwise—”

“Ugh, stop, now you sound like Mia.”

“Who sounds like me?” she asks as she approaches, having walked the twins to the floo.

“Me. You know how it annoys him when anyone in his vicinity is responsible,” Cedric teases. “By the way, let me know when you’re free and let’s get coffee one day soon, there’s something I want to pick your brain about—I know a muggle shop not too far from here.”

Hermione smiles with a nod. “I’ll owl you.”

As soon as the last of the guests are gone, she and Harry make their way to the table, where Remus holds out spoons and proffers the ice cream carton he’s already digging into, his husband downing a glass of firewhiskey beside him.

“Mia,” Harry says, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re planning something to get back at Aberforth, right?”

His sister snorts, finishing another bite of the dessert. “Oh, of course. Like I’d let him get away with that bullshit.”

Sirius grins wickedly; meanwhile, Remus lets out a world-weary sigh, allowing himself an abnormally large scoop of ice cream. “Make sure you don’t get caught, will you?”

“When have I ever been caught doing something wrong?” she asks innocently. “No one’s ever found out about the Polyjuice, or the breaking out a fugitive, or Rita, or Roger.”

Remus’s eyes go wide. “What did you do to Roger?”

“_Who_ the hell is Roger?” Sirius demands, looking put out at being left out of the loop.

“A rapist,” Hermione smiles sweetly. “Not mine, obviously.” She bursts out laughing darkly at her own joke, but tries to rein it in at their stricken expressions, holding up her hands in apology when Harry scowls at her. “Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist. It’s easier if I joke about it. _Anyway_, he’s a piece of shit, but I took care of him. And told him if I heard about him doing anything I specifically forbade him to do, I’d be back, with Sirius this time.”

“Right on, kitten,” Sirius smirks, reaching out a fist for her to bump.

Remus’s stress is palpable. “Hermione, how _exactly_ did you take care of him?”

“Ever heard of the curse of Cain?”

(He tries to give her a disproving look, but his lips twitch, and she knows he’s holding back impressed pride.)

/

Christmas day comes, and it’s—they’re all pretending like there’s not a war on.

Which—it’s nice, to not think about all the darkness for a day.

(But at the same time, it so clearly weighs on all of them it feels like a joke not to acknowledge it.)

Percy and Tonks are passed out on a couple of couches in one of the rarely used sitting rooms Sirius had added on to the Manor, grateful for the reprieve as Molly and Andromeda argue back and forth about whose turn it is to hold Teddy, even going so far as to set timers to keep it fair.

Mid-afternoon, Bill swoops between them to snatch him, earning giggles from the baby, who loves to tug on his hair and stare at his earring.

He eventually hands him off to Fleur, who begins whispering and singing to him in French, dancing around the house with him smiling in her arms.

Hermione snickers when she catches the blonde’s soul mate looking on in awe. “Baby fever much, Bill?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He grins and winks at her. “This is actually part of my plot to convince her to start trying for one of our own. She’s more prone to doing things when she thinks they’re her idea.”

Ginny laughs beside her, entirely unsurprised.

“Oh my god, you’re incorrigible.” Hermione shakes her head, but can’t help but smile at the thought; Fleur and Bill will be phenomenal parents, it’s so clear. “It would be nice for Teddy to have a cousin.”

“Right?” He sighs, expression growing serious. “I know having a kid in the middle of a war is a bad idea, but selfishly—if I die in the war, I want to at least have had a moment with them, you know? To at least have seen my child be born before I go.”

“I don’t think it’s selfish,” Hermione says softly, searching for the right words. “It’s natural—to want our dreams fulfilled before we’re extinguished. To want to at least glimpse the thing we’re fighting for.”

Bill nods, but eyes her carefully, like he’s trying to figure her out.

(Trying to figure out what dream it is she’s fighting for.)

It's a hard day, overall; Luna’s hiding while the Weasleys are over, of course, with the stash of muggle books Remus had procured for her to be able to continue her passions without being detected.

And Ron’s wrought with guilt, darkness, and sorrow; it’s killing them to keep it from him that she’s really alive, knowing how deeply affected he is by the belief that it’s his fault she’s gone.

(He can barely look Harry in the eye, most days, though his best friend keeps desperately reassuring him it’s not his fault.)

It’s just become so clear, how much of an impact the war’s already had; the twins mentions the altered shop hours and precautions they’ve had to take, the floo they’ve had to open so Oliver has a safe way into the flat when he gets in late from away matches.

They’re all smiling, and happy, and together, but beneath it all is a veneer of anxiety and sadness that can’t be fully quelled.

Later that night, after the guests have gone home, and Tonks and Percy have receded to put Teddy down and keep from destroying his already messy sleep schedule, they’re all sitting around the living room, talking with carols playing in the background.

An owl flies in, straight to Remus, who frowns with concern.

“Who would write at this hour?” Hermione wonders in a whisper to Harry and Luna, who both shrug.

“Order business, maybe?” Harry suggests.

But Hermione watches her pseudo-guardian’s face—the grim set of his jaw as he reads the missive; the sorrow with which he raises his face to the room.

She makes eye contact with Andy, both of them wearing a look of knowing.

(The look on his face—it’s one that means someone’s dead.)

“I’m afraid Voldemort has struck again,” Remus says softly.

(The way he says it, so careful; it’s someone they know. Someone whose death will hurt them.)

They all look up at him, anxious, just waiting for him to rip off the band-aid.

“It—” he blows out a deep breath, mouth turned down in an apologetic frown. “Luna, I’m so sorry, but your father—”

_(This is war.)_

/

“The Dark Lord requires your presence.”

Draco’s blood turns to ice, both because of the words themselves and the speaker. He gets to his feet rigidly, controlling his expression as he faces his father.

He follows him to the dining room where Voldemort is currently holding sway, passing Greyback along the way. Nagini slithers along the hallway, hissing to Ella, who’s taken to tagging along with the Parkinsons most days.

The Dark Lord in question waves for him to come closer rather than sitting at the table, motioning to kneel a yard from the seat he’s in.

(Draco’s kneeling at his feet as though he’s a king, it’s—insanity.)

(How did they get here?)

“Your attempts to take out Dumbledore thus far have been not only unsuccessful, but pitiful.”

Draco swallows heavily, but shows no fear. “I’m sorry, my Lord. I’ll do better going forward. I won’t disappoint you again.”

A slicing hex swipes his cheek, but before he can register the blood slipping down his skin—

_“Crucio.”_

(Agony.)

(Lightning in his bones, every cell shattering, every nerve ending being pulverized--)

(He can’t think, can’t feel—there’s nothing but pain.)

He’s panting when it ends; it’s a curse he’s been subjected too countless times, but it feels different from every caster.

(And Voldemort is much more powerful than his father.)

“Yes, you will,” Voldemort’s silky voice whispers. “If you fail again, your life will cease. Furthermore, you must procure a way for Bellatrix to subvert the wards and enter the castle. If you haven’t done so by the last day of term, your mother dies.”

Draco can’t keep his eyes from going wide, then, horror flooding him at the threat.

“Oh, I picked through your father’s memories a bit to see if there might be a more…persuasive….method for encouraging you to succeed.” He casts the cruciatus again.

(Pain. Aching. He can’t breathe from the excruciating madness of it.)

“And let me be clear, Draco—it will not be a peaceful death.” He smirks, red eyes flashing. “So if I were you, I would find a way to succeed.”

“Y—yes, my Lord.” The words come out raspy, his breathing still shallow. “I understand.”

“Good. But just in case you need a bit more reminding…” Voldemort turns his head to the corner of the room. “Bella, take him into the drawing room and make sure he knows what’s at stake, will you?”

“Of course, my Lord. It would be my honor.”

His aunt drags him to the other room, eyes bright with mania as she raises her wand.

(His muscles still twitch even after he’s lost consciousness from the pain.)

/

“You’ve been watching the girl for months.” Voldemort speaks quietly, but his voice carries—even a whisper resounds throughout the room.

(It’s just the two of them.)

The spy nods, anxious at the prospect of giving his report.

(Of what the punishment will be if the information he’s gathered isn’t enough.)

“Yes, my Lord. The girl is—clever, but only in facts; she doesn’t do well with abstract concepts or non-academics, often. She’s quick at learning new things, but is often hesitant to use spells and information prior to entirely having mastered it. She allegedly has a muggle boyfriend, though I’ve never seen her send off letters to him so I have a theory that she made him up to prevent mockery from other students. She’s close with all of the Weasleys, as is Potter, and she also seems to be good friends with Zabini, Parkinson, and Longbottom. She and Potter—”

He chokes on his own tongue, as he had the last time he’d attempted to reveal ASA to the Dark Lord. “I’m sorry, my Lord. I am—still bound not to say certain things. But suffice to say they are large proponents of and contributors to house unity and have allies across the school.”

“One of Dumbledore’s ilk, then.” Voldemort sneers with disgust, eyes narrowed in thought. “Is she close to the old fool?”

“Not at all. I’ve never seen them speak—the rumor is she hates him, actually, though she never speaks about it publicly. She _is _close with McGonagall, and Lupin, obviously.”

Humming, the Dark Lord strokes Nagini. “Perhaps her distaste for Dumbledore can be used to our advantage. What are her weaknesses?”

“She’s soft,” he blurts out, worried he’ll be crucio’d if he hesitates. “She’s a sucker for kids, or anyone who’s hurt and in need. She drops everything to help even the half-giant that works as gamekeeper, has neglected her studies to do research on elf rights, is late to even Snape’s class if a first-year needs help. Any time someone needs her, she’s incapable of doing anything but helping them. It’s pathetic.”

“She won’t have the strength to make the sacrifices this war requires,” Voldemort says, smirking as the beginnings of a plan form in his mind. “Very well. Get out. Continue keeping eyes on her—I want to know everything. You’ll receive word when I decide how you’ll deal with her.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He hurries out of the room, trying to be gone before the leader in question can decide to torture him for kicks.

(The man that was once Tom Riddle smiles as he begins to craft a way to take her out of the equation.)

(As he begins to craft Harry Potter’s downfall.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from you’re gonna go far kid by the offspring
> 
> I can never tell if what I’m writing is actually that sad or if it’s bc my writing playlist is emo af and I am prone to crying lmao
> 
> Thank you for your continued love for this story. pls take care of yourselves. all my love


	33. through my bloodshot eyes

She’s antsy, the way she always is, lately.

It’s both better and worse, away from home; on the one hand, being away from the house is soothing, a change; on the other, she works so hard to keep it together around her brother and Sofia that she can’t help but fall apart the second she’s away from them and can actually let herself _feel_.

Cedric meets her at Grimmauld Place, because these days neither she nor Harry is allowed to go anywhere alone.

The beauty of the Fidelius and Grimmauld being in a muggle neighborhood is that they don’t have to disguise themselves, though as soldiers they can’t help but be on guard.

They chat aimlessly as they walk up the street; they could apparate, but—it’s nice, being able to stroll instead of hurry, for once.

(To not have to be constantly on edge, watching everyone around them look over their shoulder.)

“How’s sixth year treating you? Prefect duties going okay?” Cedric smiles knowingly. “You gunning for Head Girl?”

“Oh god, no,” she bursts out laughing, chest feeling light for the first moment all of break. “I have far too much on my plate already, and besides that, I’ve broken far too many rules. No one in their right mind would put me in charge.”

Scoffing, Cedric makes a face. “Not that Dumbledore’s exactly in his right mind.”

“Truer words have never been spoken.” Her throat feels tight, anger flooding her at the thought of the man who’s enabled so much suffering. She clears her throat in an attempt to distract herself. “How’s Theo doing?”

Cedric’s own expression grows troubled, hand instinctively going to the woven bracelet at his wrist his soul mate had given him as a graduation gift nearly two years prior. “He’s been better. His family’s mostly safe, and he is too, as long as my…allegiances, aren’t discovered. But he’s said—” he swallows heavily. “Even if the worst happens, me doing this work is more important. Which I hate, but—makes me love him even more. And he’s right. I love him more than the whole world, but—I couldn’t let the world burn even if it meant his life.”

“I—I’m so sorry.” Hermione grips his shoulder gently, sorrow visible on her face. “I hate that you’re having to deal with this. But you’re incredibly brave to do it anyway, I—I think we’d all like to think we could make the same sacrifice, but the truth is I’d never be strong enough. Even if it meant the world.”

He frowns with grim understanding. “I don’t think that’s true. That’s—part of why I wanted to get coffee, actually.”

“Sorry?”

He looks around them, casting a muffliato just in case. “I…Theo’s a Death Eater, Hermione.”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth, unsure of whether he wants a response, or to vent, or what.

Cedric gives her a meaningful look. “He’s been marked since the start of school.”

“Oh—okay?”

They enter the café, and he puts on a smile as they order from the barista, but when they sit down he looks entirely exasperated with her. “Hermione, we’ve sparred together hundreds of times. I watched you duel nearly every day of seventh year, and spent plenty of time at Order meetings since then.”

She rubs at her temples, unseeing. “Yes, Ced, we’ve been good friends for ages, but I’m afraid I’m missing your point.”

“You’ve been wearing long sleeves since July.” He grimaces when her eyes go wide, glancing at her left forearm. “Which, a penchant for baggy sweatshirts and sweaters is nothing new for you, but—you’ve always rolled up the sleeves. _Always_. You’re far too practical to keep them rolled down for fighting, or any time you’re reading or writing and they might get in the way; I’d almost never seen them _not_ rolled up. On top of the secret boyfriend we all knew about, how stressed you’ve been all year. I’ve seen the kind of pain I’m in, in your eyes—I’ve only seen it in George’s and Neville’s. Those of us who love Slytherins at the center of it all.”

Gripping tightly at her wand out of habit, out of nerves, she grasps for words. “I—what are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says gently, frowning slightly. “I hate that times are so dark that it’s your first thought, but—I understand why. I just wanted to tell you that—I see you. And you’re not alone. I know how it weighs on you, when the person you love is in hell, when you’re fighting on the other side, knowing it might kill them. If you ever need to—talk about it, or just—be with someone who understands.”

Hermione swallows heavily. She debates denying it, lashing out, but—it’s not likely she’ll convince Cedric, anyone.

(He’s always been a bit too perceptive, a bit too good at psychoanalyzing everyone around him to fall for it.)

The barista’s making rounds wiping down tables, smiles as she passes by them; then, her eyes go big at the sight of Hermione’s wand in hand.

Hermione moves to shove it away hastily, but the woman’s already moving toward her. “Those props are so incredible! My favorite customer has one too, though I’m amazed by it every time. Are you two in the same acting troupe, then?”

Her eyebrows shoot upward. “I’m sorry—the same acting troupe as who, exactly?”

“Narcissa, of course! Is she alright? The dove was in with her son last week, though they both looked a bit ill—poor lamb could do to put on some weight, though I suppose if he’s his mother’s genetics it might just be the metabolism. She hadn’t been in for ages, before that.”

And Hermione knows she should feign nonchalance, should pretend it doesn’t affect her in the slightest to keep Cedric in the dark, but—

(she can’t help it—her body reacts without her own intent, at the mention of her soul mate’s presence.)

“He—Draco was here last week?” she rasps, unable to stop herself as the words fall out of her mouth.

Far away, she hears Cedric suck in a shocked breath as he puts it together, the desperation in the tension of her body, attention rapt on the barista as her fingers grip her mug so tightly her knuckles grow white.

“Mhm, that’s the one—such an odd name. You _do_ know them, then?”

Hermione nods, at a loss for words.

(He was here, and alive, and okay, just a week ago.)

(One more week and she’ll see him with her own eyes.)

The barista eventually waves and heads away, and Hermione’s helpless as she turns to Cedric, who’s looking at her with wide eyes. “Fuck.”

She giggles at the ridiculousness of it all, unable to do anything but laugh at her own situation. “Yeah.” She rolls her eyes, lip curling. “All the stories make star-crossed lovers seem romantic—it’s anything but.”

“I—wow. Okay.” He shakes his head, like he’s assimilating the knowledge with his own memories. “I’m a good occlumens, by the way, so—you’re safe. I wouldn’t have approached you about it at all if I weren’t.”

“I know,” Hermione promises with a half-hearted smile. “You’re a good friend, Cedric. I have no doubt you’d never to anything that could endanger me so long as you can help it.” Her lip twitches into a smirk. “That’s why Harry loved the badges so much during the tournament, by the way—he had been whining about people cheering for him instead of you, so Draco made them to get them to stop. The two of them wouldn’t stop laughing about it for ages.”

“Of course.” Cedric’s expression is fond, and it’s visible, the way he decides Draco is an ally—that his friends trust him, so he trusts him.

(It’s that simple, his loyalty that strong.)

After a few moments of silence, Hermione searches for something more positive, to distract them from the hell of it all for just a moment. “Oh! Did you hear about Fleur and Bill’s engagement?”

“Yes, I’m so thrilled for them,” Cedric grins, delighted. “She—they’ve asked me to be a groomsman, actually, which I was surprised about and insisted Bill didn’t have to, he already has so many brothers he probably wants to have part in it, but he insisted anyone who’s family to Fleur is family to him, so I guess I’ll be walking down the aisle with Ginny.”

Hermione smiles at the thought. “That feels right.”

/

They can’t risk gathering on the train, anymore—the situation’s grown too dire.

(There are too many eyes on too many of them.)

So it’s just Harry, Ron, and Hermione in a train car, like it’s first year again.

They’ve cast muffliato, and they’re all sprawling around with throw blankets and tired eyes, and something about it is…significant.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to come back to Hogwarts next year.” Harry’s hesitant, as he says it, eyes cast downward as he waits for his sister to chastise him.

But she doesn’t—isn’t surprised at all, unfortunately. She leans her head on his shoulder, interlocking her fingers with his. “Okay.”

“That’s it?” He blinks at her, looking to Ron for confirmation it’s not a dream. “You’re not mad at me for missing out on my education?”

“Harry, you know better than anyone it’s not the education I care about, it’s—the fear of no longer having a place in this world. If Voldemort wins the war…this escape is lost to us all.”

Harry nods slowly. “And you’re—not mad that I’m abandoning you?”

At this both Hermione and Ron burst out laughing, turning to each other as though he’s not there.

“What an adorable idiot we have,” Hermione muses.

Ron shakes his head in agreement. “Honestly. It’d be funny if he weren’t completely serious.”

“Sorry?”

Levelling him with a look, Ron crosses his arms. “Mate, you’re not leaving us behind. We’re coming with you.”

“You can’t—”

“Harry James, I _know _you’re not serious right now.” Her eyes are burning as she stares him down. “You’re fucking delusional if you think we’re just going to go to school as if everything is normal while you’re off hunting pieces of the antichrist’s soul. We’re in this fight just as deeply as you are.”

“And honestly, bro,” Ron says, the colloquialism earning a face from Hermione, “Without us there, Voldemort won’t even have to kill you, you’ll die all on your own.”

Harry’s jaw drops with offense. “That’s not at all true!”

“Really?” Hermione cocks an eyebrow, unapologetic. “Where are you going to sleep? Can’t exactly stay at the Leaky or any other hotel when you’re on the run.”

“Well, I—”

Ron cuts him off. “What are you going to eat? Do you have any sort of plan to get ahold of food, a way to cook it?”

“Have you put together any medical supplies to keep with you?”

“A way to transport it all?”

Harry’s breathing quickens, anxiety ramping up at all the things he hadn’t even begun to consider. “I—I suppose not, but…”

“Harry. Breathe.” Hermione reaches for his hand, eyes softening. “We’re not pelting you with questions to scare you or overwhelm you. We’re asking them because they’re all necessary things for you to stay alive long enough to succeed and actually beat him—and because they’re things we’ve already made plans for.”

“You—what?”

They both smile grimly, and Ron says, “Every time you’ve snuck off alone to mope and be emo about how you have to do all of this alone, we’ve been drawing up plans, making contingencies, figuring out the best ways to make it all happen. No offense, Harry, because you’re great in a fight, but you’re pretty horrible at being a person.”

“Hence why you quite literally can’t do this without us.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth, before settling on a hesitant nod. “I—I know you’d be in this fight regardless. But being in my life has already made both of yours’ so much harder; you’ve dealt with so much you wouldn’t have otherwise. I—the last thing I want to do is put you in even more danger for my benefit.”

“Good thing what you do and don’t want doesn’t matter where this is concerned.” Hermione’s expression is dead serious, lip twitching with amusement at the way her brother’s face scrunches up with frustration. “Your safety aside, winning this war is—all that matters.”

He sighs, scratching at his hair. “How did you even know what I was planning?”

“I mean, we’ve met you.” Ron tilts his head knowingly. “I can be daft, but you’re—the most predictable and annoyingly noble and self-sacrificing dumbass on the planet.”

He and Hermione both eye their friend, gazes simultaneously exasperated and fond.

Harry pauses, considering, and whispers, “Thank you.”

“Always,” Hermione promises, Ron murmuring his agreement. “Family.”

They’re quite, for a while; thoughtful, resting, bracing themselves for the term to come.

“Not to take away Harry’s status as the reigning morbidity champ,” Ron mumbles, laying down across the seats as he stares at the ceiling. “But the truth is we probably won’t all survive this. I’m—I know I haven’t been through things in the same way you two have, but—I’m terrified of something happening to my parents. My brothers. _Ginny_. One of you.” He winces, horror and heartbreak in his face when he meets Harry’s eyes. “And you’ve just lost Luna, I—merlin, I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry’s expression twists with pain that Ron perceives as grief, but Hermione knows is the complicated chaos of guilt and sorrow the reminder of his friend’s cluelessness as to Luna’s survival.

“It’s—not okay, but. I understand what you mean. _Because_ the loss is so fresh and…reality feels very fragile right now.”

Hermione hums, thoughtful; meanwhile, Harry sighs before continuing. “I—I wish I could disagree. But it’s…the odds aren’t in our favor. I wished for a family for so long, and now I have you both, and my dads, and everyone, and it’s…I’m so scared of losing them. But it’s not possible for us all to make it. And I’m…so worried about not measuring up, not being able to beat him.”

“You both deserve so much better,” Hermione whispers softly. “We all do. I—hate that this is our future. I want so much more for us than this half-life.”

“Someday.” Ron closes his eyes like he’s dreaming it up, a future where they’re safe, and happy, and every day isn’t another yard of a hellish obstacle course they can never escape. “Someday, we’ll be—really, actually good. Not just alive, but—_living_.”

“What a concept,” Harry murmurs, half asleep where he lays with his head in Hermione’s lap. She strokes her fingers through his hair, dwelling on it all.

(In passing, considers that the position is so comfortable because for so long Harry’d never felt loved or cared for, and she’d never had anything in her control.)

She considers it—the idea that someday they’ll be happy, truly living instead of just surviving day to day.

(She wishes she believed it.)

/

Draco’s chest is tightening, and he’s speed walking through the castle as fast as he possibly can, radiating _stay away_ as much as is physically possible in the hopes that it’ll keep everyone away from him long enough to make it to the room of requirement.

(He just has to make it there, and then he can fall apart.)

A few Slytherins he passes attempt to get his attention, but he turns a snarl so derisive onto them they immediately cower and run the opposite direction.

He’s not breathing when he finally hurtles himself through the entrance to the room, just wishing for somewhere, anywhere to hide, for even just a moment—somewhere he can breakdown, let out the scream threatening to drown him out.

He collapses to his knees amidst a cluttered space, everything from books to bird cages to worn chairs and forgotten firewhiskey filling the room as it currently exists. He’s hyperventilating, now, eyes burning with tears as he lets himself feel for the first time in a month—

(He’s so incredibly screwed—he and his mother are both going to die, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.)

It’s hilarious, actually; his father spent so many years trying to make their lives hell, and Voldemort has managed to do the same within a span of months.

(And Draco knows better than to hope Hermione won’t be caught in the crossfire.)

The fact that they haven’t been caught yet, even with all of their precautions; the fact that no one has realized their connection after all these years—

(He’s not naïve enough to believe it’ll last—not naïve enough to believe they’ll both survive this.)

“Merlin. Fuck. How did we get here.” His voice is raspy, even as he whispers out loud to himself—he dissolves into bitter, maniacal laughter, at the sheer horror and impossibility of it all.

And if he doesn’t come up with a way to get them into Hogwarts, Voldemort will know—Draco’s too clever, and Dumbledore too lax, for him to not somehow succeed. If he doesn’t it’ll be obvious it’s intentional.

(And then more people will die just to punish him, because that’s Tom Riddle’s playbook.)

There’s no winning, with this.

He has so much frustration, and hopelessness, and rage inside him, he picks up the object nearest to him, and just—chucks it. Takes a deep breath at the sound of something breaking, because at least there’s something in his control, something _he_ can break instead of helplessly watching someone else take it out of his hands.

It’s—cathartic, so he keeps going, picking up anything and everything he can reach to chuck and break, a cacophony of sound and chaos around him.

A part of him is terrified, at how easy it is for him to lose control like this, to be swept up in rage, to destroy everything around him.

(Terrified that he’ll become his father—that the same darkness lives inside him, that he, too, might be capable of the same kind of harm to everyone around him.)

He falls back to the floor amidst the damage, out of tears, and out of energy, and out of hope.

Which is how Hermione finds him, half an hour later.

“Draco?” she calls out as she enters the RoR, confusion clear in her voice as she takes in the unfamiliar configuration. “Harry couldn’t find you anywhere else on the map, so I just asked the room for you and—oh, god. _Draco_.”

He’s just laying on the floor, when she spots him, chaotic wreckage all around, staring at the ceiling completely zoned out.

“Hi, my love,” she whispers, laying down beside him, gently tugging his hand to her chest, where she softly traces along his skin. “I missed you.”

He hums his agreement, but doesn’t otherwise respond; doesn’t acknowledge her presence except to lean over and press a kiss to her collarbone, before returning his attention to the ceiling.

“I won’t ask if you’re okay, because—I’m sure right now it’s impossible for you to be.” She’s quiet for a beat, listening to the soothing sound of his breathing.

(Feeling for the pulse at his wrist—the reassurance that he’s here, and alive.)

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Draco takes a deep breath, silent for another moment, before murmuring, “I’m going to become him.”

“What do you—”

“I broke all of this.” His voice is cold and detached, so hopeless he has to dissociate from it all to keep from drowning in it. “Just—I was upset, and I couldn’t breathe or think and I just—snapped. I’m—Mia, what if I turn into him? If I—hurt you, or—”

“You could never.” She doesn’t even hesitate, even as she realizes what he means—the bone deep fear that he’s going to become Lucius, a monster to everyone around him. “Babe, you—throwing old abandoned junk when your world is falling apart is not the same as abusing your family. You are—you are _nothing _like him.”

He shakes his head in disagreement; doesn’t argue back, but—so clearly thinks she’s wrong.

“Draco.” Her voice is soft—so gentle, quiet enough he might miss it. “You and I have both grown up in hell. We know monsters. And it’s—I can so, so understand why you’re so scared to become one. But you are _not _that. You are—heart, and soul, and love, and the one I’d trust to keep me safe more than anyone in this world.”

Draco slides over just a bit; carefully pulls her into his arms, heart rate growing steady at the familiar scent of her hair. “I need you to promise me,” he says, voice shaky, “That if I ever do become that—even the slightest bit. If I am—at all like him, if I even—_look_ like I might, you’ll get out. Promise me. No matter what I say or do, you’ll leave.” He swallows heavily, sucking in a deep breath. “No one can hurt you ever again. Especially not me. There would be—nothing worse in this world.”

Hermione blinks back tears, overwhelmed with sorrow and love.

(Wondering what it’s like for other people who don’t have these memories, don’t have to live with these fears.)

“Not that I will _ever_ need to,” she stresses, “But yes. I promise.”

They sit up, eventually, and Draco surveys the room for the first time; really and truly takes in the sight of what’s around him.

Lopsided stacks of books everywhere, dueling dummies, a set of weights, a nightstand, a silver crown, dilapidated pillows on an ancient futon, a tall dark cabinet that seems like obsidian—

(A memory tugs at him, from months ago in Borgin and Burkes—)

(And years before that, when Flint had been missing for days after picking a fight with the Weasleys, only to later reappear and tell them all he’d fallen into a—)

“_Vanishing cabinet_,” he whispers, softly—so, so quiet.

Hermione picks her head up, covering a yawn as she blinks back the exhaustion. “Hm?”

“I…” he ponders, threads beginning to weave together—possibilities. The beginnings of a plan.

(_Maybe they can survive this._)

“We’re going to have to be so, so careful.”

/

All of ASA is—understandably stressed.

(Families are beginning to choose sides.)

(Many have switched to standing beside the light, since Luna’s article, which is a stroke of luck they’d never even dared to hope for, but—)

For those whose families are on the other side…

(Hell is forming around them.)

Harry and Hermione do their best to soothe everyone, remind them that in this one place, if nowhere else, they’re safe and united.

(But no one’s spirits are very bright.)

They’re doing a bit of review and then work on shielding when the other party has already cast a curse; Hannah and Zacharias are giving each other a run for their money, fear visibly motivating them, while Justin and Parvati have such severe underlying anxiety they’re struggling to focus long enough to even attempt to cast.

The only person who looks more stressed than Harry feels is Pansy, whose family has been publicly taking action in Voldemort’s name, her break nearly as bad as Draco’s; halfway through the meeting, she sits down to take a break and attempt to calm herself, but ends up falling asleep despite the cacophony of chaos all around.

(She’s _that_ drained—Hermione and Ginny lock eyes at the sight, pained by how visibly she’s suffering.)

After doing rounds to check on everyone, Harry moves to grab a water bottle as the members begin to shuffle out of the chamber, humming when he feels Ella’s familiar shape curl around his ankle. “Hey, you.”

She hisses, making her way up to his shoulders, scales sliding along his cloak as she goes, but it’s not her usual chatter—it’s hurried, the parsletongue coming so quickly Harry barely has time to understand.

“Oh—oh, god. Guys,” he calls, searching to make sure it’s just Hermione, Ginny, Ron, and Blaise left, Pansy and Neville having gone off to work on a potions assignment, while Draco’s spent the entire evening working on plans for the invasion of Hogwarts.

All of them immediately alert at the panic in his voice.

Hermione’s instantly at his side, wand raised. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m—I’m fine. It’s not me who—fuck, I—” he swallows, tugging at his hair in a frenzy. “Sit down. You should all sit down.”

“What’s going on?” Blaise asks, Ginny hypervigilant beside him.

Harry opens and closes his mouth, searching for the right words. “Ella’s been…doing some recon for us, while she and Pansy have been stuck at Voldemort’s headquarters. She hangs out with Nagini a lot, so she’s been—overhearing things, over break.”

Hermione’s eyes go wide with understanding, tension flooding her body. “Harry, what did she hear?”

“Apparently, Voldemort—killed his soul mate. When he was still in school—to avoid any vulnerability, any weakness. He’s started looking into the three of ours, he—” he swallows heavily, wincing before saying, “he said it’s for the best that he already had Luna taken care of. Ella heard him say the spy that has eyes on you is trying to find dirt on yours, Mia, to find a way to use them to sabotage you. Ron’s too, but because they have all of his family he’s not as worried about—having hostages.”

Hermione goes white with fear, pressing clasped hands to her mouth. “Fuck. If—if the spy puts it together, if Draco’s found out—they’ll kill him. In a heartbeat.”

“I know.” Harry moves to rub her back gently, trying to calm her as though he’s not panicking himself. “We’ll just—have to be more careful. And now we know, so you two can take precautions, be on guard.”

“How are we supposed to be on guard when this spy is a student? They could be—anyone, someone who’s already graduated or a first year, everyone is fair game, and we’re none the wiser. The fact that we haven’t been found out this far is—pure luck. I—” her fists clench so hard the nails draw blood from her palms.

Harry gingerly tugs at her fingers, gently moving them so they’re no longer digging into her skin. “Breathe, Mia. I’m sorry. It’s horrible, but—we’re going to figure this out, okay? We’re here. Draco’s okay for now.”

She blinks, zoning back in with a shuddering intake of breath, biting her lip at the sight of her brother dabbing away at the blood dripping onto her pants. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to snap. I know it’s not your fault. I just…”

“It’s your soul mate,” he soothes, unbothered. “No one would react any differently. You’re allowed to freak out when his life is on the line.”

Their eyes meet, because he knows the fear running through her.

(of course he does, as it’s consumed him for the last two months.)

Hermione tries to shake off the fear, to force herself into action to distract from the overwhelming terror. “Right. Okay. We can—we can get through this. We’ve been through hell before, we can get through this.” She takes several deep breaths, the way Remus has spent the last year trying to teach them both to do, before turning to Ron. “Your soul mate—what can we do to keep them safe? You’ve—you’ve never talked about them much.”

“Oh, right,” he shrugs, looking mainly too stunned by the situation to be scared or register much of anything at all. “I mean, it’s Susan—we’re good friends, and all, and we plan on being together eventually, but she’s really serious about her studies, so we’re just staying friends till at least graduation.”

Ginny makes a face, visibly bracing herself. “Ron, I promise I hate that I’m about to say this more than you do, but—do you two ever sneak off to shag?” The disgust at bringing up her brother’s sex life is tangible, but she charges forward. “Anything that could be traceable or seen, we need to know so we can make sure the spy doesn’t have a way to connect you two.”

“On a list of questions I never thought my baby sister would ask me,” Ron mutters with a shake of his head. “No, though, we don’t—I mean, we’re both ace, so. No worries there. We don’t fuck around in broom closets like some people.”

Hermione’s entire face flushes. “That was one time, you swore you wouldn’t mention it again!”

The younger Weasley cackles gleefully. “Oh, I’m so never letting you live that down.”

“Do you really want to talk about _strange liasons_, because your brother is in the room and I would love nothing more than to watch you both squirm—”

“Priorities, please,” Blaise insists, unfazed despite the way Ron’s now scowling at him. “When is you two’s next lesson with Dumbledore?”

Harry’s expression is grim at the thought. “Tomorrow. It’s an important one, apparently. And he’s still bugging us about getting the memories from Slughorn, so if anyone comes up with some brilliant ideas, feel free to suggest them.”

Nodding in agreement, Hermione rubs at her temples, distress lining her body. “Do you think it’ll all ever stop getting worse? It would be nice if there were a world where life gets better, for once.”

Beside her, Harry mumbles, “whole war to go before then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from bloodshot by dove cameron
> 
> sorry for all the emo, my loves. It’s a hard time for our faves. Have been doing lots of thorough plotting, so v excited for you to see the ~action~ currently in the making
> 
> take care of yourselves out there—more to come soon. all my love.


	34. darling everything's on fire

The first memory, one taken from a man dying, just barely out of prison—of his youth, his father.

His sister—and the muggle she adored, a prat called Tom Riddle with the kind of wealth that made his entitlement clear.

(The pieces are beginning to fit together, Harry knows, meets Hermione’s grim eyes beside him.)

It’s—using a love potion on someone, forcing them to be with you, is completely unforgivable. It’s a kind of violation, an overreach of agency that’s unacceptable and wrong in so, so many ways.

But this is before that—she’s not that person, yet.

She’s just a lonely girl in an abusive household, a girl who’s known nothing but darkness and pain and waiting for it all to end.

(They’ve been there, too. They can’t help but feel for her, just as they had Tom.)

Morfin, the insane and cruel son, speaks only in Parsletongue, Harry’s whispered translation meeting Hermione’s ear. It’s all just heartbreaking to see; everyone in this home became a monster, did such horrible things, but even before they went bad—

(_She never stood a chance_.)

And it’s—terrifying, Harry thinks, how much he can understand the way Voldemort became the person he did. Knowing himself, trying to imagine who he would’ve been without Hermione and Ron, without his dads, without Tonks and Andy and Sofia—he can’t even picture it.

(He’d like to think he would’ve stayed on the same course regardless, but the truth is…it’s easy to become so, so bitter when life just keeps fucking you over.)

And then Marvolo is thrusting his ring in Odgen’s face, talking about some family called the Peverells, and it’s the same ring that was on Dumbledore’s desk, the one they’d decided must be a horcrux, the one that had destroyed Dumbledore’s hand—

And then he’s reaching for his daughter’s throat, and if they hadn’t been sure already they would be now, because he’s tugging forward the _very same locket_ from Grimmauld Place, the one Regulus Black had given his life to take, the one they _know_ was a horcrux—

And Hermione’s clutching at his hand as they both suck in shocked breaths, trying not to react so as to not give anything away, and it’s—

(All of the pieces are finally coming together, everything they’ve learned over the years beginning to fit together as it all comes full circle.)

It’s honestly insane, that they’ve made it this far, that the years of chaos and bloodshed have brought them to this point; that these moments and life-changing objects have such ordinary roots that are appearing in every aspect of their lives.

They’re inside the small, dilapidated Gaunt home, and Marvolo is getting in Ogden’s face, and Harry is—cornered.

(Trapped.)

The walls are closing in, and his breathing grows shallow, and he drops to the ground, curling in the fetal position and squeezing his eyes shut and imagining he’s somewhere else.

Mia’s at his side, of course, rubbing his back and telling him to breathe, whispering _“it’s not real, Harry, you’re okay, we’re not here”_; she turns to a surprised Dumbledore and barks, “Get us out! Now!”

Dumbledore, to his credit, is so confused and shocked that he doesn’t argue, or reprimand her for having an attitude or commanding him. He waves his wand, and then they’re emerging from the pensive.

Harry’s gasping, hyperventilating as they land on the hard tile of Dumbledore’s office; as he takes in the open space and his sister’s reminders that he’s out, that he’s okay, his heart rate begins to slow.

“Harry, what—” Dumbledore tries to approach, but Hermione steps in front of him defensively.

“Give him some space. Just leave it alone—you’re good at that.”

The headmaster narrows his eyes at her. “If something’s wrong, I need to know.”

And it’s—if Harry had the mental capacity for it, he would attempt to defuse the situation, because Hermione’s always at her most dangerous when defending him against _anyone_; up against a man she already hates with a burning passion…

“Nothing’s wrong. He just needs a moment.” Her eyes burn with the anger of someone who’s watched her brother have to pull himself back out of hell after a lifetime of abuse—abuse this man could’ve prevented. “He’s claustrophobic, you see. Occupational hazard of living in a cupboard for eleven years. And having locks on your door and bars on your window as a child. Nothing that would worry you.”

(He loves her even more for it, because he’s never had to tell her—has never had to explain the way small spaces and restraints suffocate him, make every cell of his body feel like it’s being compressed, like he would skin himself alive if it would end the feeling.)

(She just—noticed, and put it together. Because she loves him just as much as he does her; they understand each other, the depths of each others’ trauma and darkness, in a way no one else quite can.)

And as much as he dislikes Dumbledore for many reasons, in these moments his resentment is the most visceral, when the world feels heavy and his brain whispers things would be easier if he just weren’t alive.

Because most of his trauma, the years of horror and loneliness and neglect and abuse at the Durselys’ hands—they were _so fucking unnecessary_. All of it never had to happen—dads were _there_, and wanted him, and were in his parents’ will to get him; even if Dumbledore _had_ believed Sirius guilty (a whole other can of worms) and Remus unable to financially support him, Andy had _approached_ him about it and was willing to raise him right alongside Tonks, and Dumbledore just—decided he knew better.

Decided his idea was best and never looked back, even when letters went out and he _knew_ Harry was being kept under the stairs, even when he showed up for first year underweight and malnourished and scarred and timid and jumpy.

Dumbledore had all the power to help him, every ability in the world to get him out of that hell, and he just _didn’t_.

(What kind of person _does_ that?)

Eventually, once he’s breathing normally and Hermione has relaxed her raised wand, the headmaster takes out another corked vial of memories.

(His eyeing them, even as he does so; Harry’s skittishness, Hermione’s protective stance, how easily they’d moved around one another.)

(How instinctively they banded together and faced anyone else in the world as an enemy.)

It’s making him re-evaluate them both, Hermione can tell; knows he’ll look at them differently, going forward.

(Knows he’s realized she’s a threat—and that Harry is her family.)

He pours the new memory into the pensive and meets their eyes, expression serious. “This memory is not my own. It is in complete. And it is, arguably, the most important of all those we have studied this year; this memory, I believe to be the key to defeating Voldemort.”

They go in, and it’s Slughorn’s classroom—likely his memory, then.

Tom Riddle is there, a bit older than he’d been when he opened the Chamber—a sixth or seventh year, maybe?

He approaches the professor, and everything is fine until he says it—

(_Horcruxes_.)

Harry’s unable to conceal the shock in his expression, Hermione knows without looking, and she’s likewise shocked beyond words.

(He was still in _school_ when he started making them—not even of age, and he’d begun to fracture his soul, pursue the darkest of magic.)

Not only that, but Dumbledore having this memory—it means he _knows_.

The memory warps, then, going foggy and loud and—clearly wrong, in some way—and then they’re spat back out into the office, attempting to assimilate the paradigm-shifting realizations with their previous assumptions.

“The memory is altered,” Dumbledore explains, settling down at his desk as they take the seats across from him. “But the information in the original is critical for winning this war—it is imperative that we see what truly transpired.”

(They know—god, do they know how badly they need to see it.)

“Does Professor Slughorn…not remember?” Harry asks, offering the benefit of the doubt.

The headmaster grimaces. “No, he remembers just fine; but I’m afraid Horace is ashamed of the contents of the memory—in the moment, he was helping the Head Boy, but now anything he might have said was truly aiding the man who would become the greatest dark wizard in history grow stronger. You don’t know this, but horcruxes are—some of the very darkest, worst magic on the entire planet.”

Hermione elbows Harry before he can say something stupid, and clears her throat. “Actually, sir, we know a bit about horcruxes—not much at all, of course, as obviously they’re—terrible. But the Black family passes down certain knowledge, and with the war coming, Andromeda thought it best we be prepared for anything members of the family on the other side might attempt to use against us; she just gave us a basic knowledge of what they are, and what substances are known to be able to destroy them.”

Harry doesn’t twitch, at the way she so easily weaves a believable lie. They’ve both always had to be incredible liars; the causes were horrible, of course, but in moments like these he’s incredibly grateful for the skill.

“Hm.” Dumbledore clearly disagrees with Andy having told them about the magic—doesn’t like anyone other than himself imparting knowledge, of course, because he likes to be the one with all the cards, likes to have everyone dependent on him whether they like it or not because he has a monopoly on information.

(Like _that’s_ what matters right now—this is _war_.)

He clasps his hands, meeting both of their gazes seriously. “Whatever the case, we _need_ that memory. I have tried everything short of a confundus to procure it from Horace without success; I need the two of you to convince him to give it to you, through whatever means necessary. We will have no more lessons until you’ve done so—without knowing what came to pass on that day, we cannot make any further progress.”

Harry nudges Hermione’s foot with his when her lip twitches, and he knows she’s thinking they should “accidentally” not manage to get ahold of the memory so they don’t have to meet with Dumbledore ever again.

(And he knows the thought is only half-joking.)

But she just nods, showing none of the feelings Harry already knows; says, “Yes, sir. We’ll keep you updated as to our efforts.”

At this point, the fact that he needs the memory—he doesn’t know any more than they’ve already put together; is even still in the dark about things they’d discovered, with Sirius, Tonks, and Remus’s help.

The fact that they’ve surpassed his knowledge, knowing they don’t need to rely on him for any further intel—

(Game changer.)

/

It’s the first time in a week they’ve been able to see Draco—really see him, as himself, not during their feigned antagonism in class.

He’s mumbling to himself like a mad scientist when Harry, Hermione, and Ron trail inside the RoR; Pansy and Ginny are off reading muggle werewolf romance novels somewhere, and Blaise and Theo are doing Divination NEWT coursework.

The room is in its’ hidden things state, rather than their usual common room type setup; Draco barely even notices them come in, lost in calculations and plotting under his breath.

Hermione sits down on the floor beside him, smoothing back his hair with a fond smile. “Hi, Romeo.”

Blinking, a contented sigh escapes him at the sight of her—one that makes her heart just _throb_ with love for him as he shoves his parchment aside. “Hey, love.”

“You making much progress?” she asks gently, trying not to be too obvious about the way she’s cataloguing him as she speaks—the bags beneath his eyes, the hang of his clothes from being too nauseous from stress to eat.

Draco shrugs, but seems less despondent than he has lately, so—it’s something. “Okay. I think I’m making headway on fixing the Vanishing Cabinet, and I’m starting to work on the floor plans to give them, and ways to have the Order alerted and know where to go to head them off without my cover being blown. And since we’re aiming for that to not be till the end of the year, I have to have at least one more seeming attempt on Dumbledore’s life of my own.”

He reaches to lift a bottle of mead to show them all. “I’m going to dose this with poison—not an immediate one, because most of those would alter the color and that would be visible from the outside, so it’ll be one that takes a few minutes to kick in; anyway, I’ll anonymously convince someone to give it to him as a gift. Aunt Andy has assured me that he does a poison sweep on everything he’s given to drink from anyone but the Hogwarts house elves, even McGonagall, so he’ll know before even opening it—no collateral damage, this time.”

He says it offhandedly, but Hermione can see his hands shaking—how guilty he feels for Katie getting hurt, how terrified he is of anyone else being caught in the crossfire ever again.

“Sounds like a pretty good plan to me,” Hermione promises softly, squeezing her arms around his waist; Harry and Ron nod in agreement. “Anything else fun happen since we’ve seen you last? The most excitement we’ve had is Ginny bat-bogey hexing Cormac McLaggen—which was phenomenal, don’t get me wrong, but we could do with some more entertainment.”

Draco starts to shake his head, with an amused smile at the thought of Ginny eviscerating the egotistical Gryffindor—but then he’s jumping to his feet, eyes wide. “I forgot, I can’t believe it wasn’t the first thing I mentioned—you won’t believe this.”

Ron makes a face like he’s a little worried for their friend’s sanity as he rushes across the cluttered room, going behind a stack of broken chairs before re-emerging with something slight and silver clutched in hand, the light catching it as he returns to them.

“I’ve been passing this for—months, every day, and thought nothing of it. Even when I bothered to look, I thought it must be a fake, at first; it seemed impossible, you know? But…you guys, I think it’s the real thing.”

He holds out the slight tiara, and it takes them a second to understand; it’s Ron who puts it together first, after a lifetime in the magical world. “But it’s been lost for _centuries—_millenia, even!”

“I know!” Draco’s eyes are wide. “That’s why I thought it couldn’t be the real one, but—it has to be.”

“What on earth are you—” Hermione reaches for it, narrowing her eyes as she draws it close to her face It’s beautiful, clearly quality material, ancient and delicate, but she doesn't perceive the significance until she turns it around and sees the engraved _wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure_. “Oh my god—there’s no way. Draco, how did you _find_this?”

Her soul mate gestures his own disbelief. ”It just—all year, I’ve been seeing it, and I was trying to distract myself yesterday, and it was—right there, in the middle of all the chaos and broken junk. Who knows how long it’s been here.”

Hermione turns to Harry, knowing he’ll never figure out what it is on his own. “It’s Ravenclaw’s diadem, Harry—no one’s seen it since her death, people have assumed it was destroyed thousands of years ago. It’s supposed to make the wearer cleverer, more able to process solutions to their problems; almost like Felix Felicis, a little bit.”

Harry nods expectantly. “Okay, right, so—who’s trying it on first?”

It’s thrust back into Draco’s hands, and, he swallows heavily as he lifts it above his brow. “Here goes nothing, I guess.”

They’re all silent, for a moment. Draco’s eyes go wide, thoughtful, gears of his mind visibly whirring. “Oh, I see. It’s—not the same high as felix. More like the way you feel after coffee in the morning, like you’ve been thinking hard and it didn’t work but suddenly the fog is gone. I just—I know what I need to do to finish fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. And who I should give the wine for Dumbledore to. I just—it’s all clicking.” He pauses, brow furrowing, and tilts his head to the side. “I…something feels off. Wrong.”

He moves to take it off, hesitating as he does so; as soon as it’s not on his head he frowns at it in confusion. “Weird.” He hands it off to Harry, who’s interested but definitely not excited enough to understand the significance of the moment.

Harry sets it on his hair, nodding thoughtfully. “This is really cool. Nothing feels off about it, though, I feel like my usual self. Except, y’know, smart—I imagine this is how Mia feels all the time.” They spend a few minutes discussing, with him wearing the diadem, feeling none of the unease Draco’d mentioned.

Eventually, Hermione reaches to take it from him, brimming with excitement and nerves. “I can’t believe this is really happening. All these centuries, and somehow it’s in our hands.” Raising the artifact to set it on her head, she sucks in an anticipatory breath, eyes going wide as she feels it begin to enhance her thinking. “Oh, _wow_, this is incredible! I can see how to make my plans to throw the spy off our trail work, and—” Frowning, she rubs at her eyes. “You’re right, Draco, something isn’t right. We should bring it to Remus—I mean, no, we don’t need to—but we should—shouldn’t—” mouthing dropping open with confusion and horror, she tugs it off her head, practically throwing it onto the grown in her haste to get it away from her.

“Mione, what’s wrong?” Ron asks, looking at the diadem warily.

“I—everything was fine, until I thought we should bring it to Remus, and then—it was like it was interfering with my thoughts, convincing me that I didn’t want to show him. I’ve never felt anything like it, the way it was whispering in the back of my mind…”

“So we should go straight to Remus,” Draco stresses, muscles tense. “Anything an object tries to stop us from doing seems like the right step to me.”

Harry tosses him the invisibility cloak so he can go with them inconspicuously, and they’re hurrying out the door without another word, speed walking as fast as is possible without causing a scene.

The halls are pretty empty, and they’re just a few corridors away from Remus’s quarters when they’re drawn to a halt by a ghost nearly slamming through them.

“Where is it?” she hisses, expression electrified. “I can sense it for the first time in decades—what have you done with it?”

“It’s the Grey Lady,” Hermione murmurs. “I’ve never heard of an occasion in which she spoke to students—nothing in living memory.” She raises her voice. “I’m sorry, my lady, where is what?”

The Grey Lady’s eyes flash as she meets Hermione’s gaze. “My mother’s diadem. I can sense it here, but it’s hidden, somehow. I’ve made the mistake of allowing a student to possess it once before—I won’t let it happen again.”

“Your mother’s…” Ron’s jaw drops. “You’re Ravenclaw’s daughter—what was her name?”

“Helena,” Draco whispers, tugging the cloak off himself, the diadem becoming visible along with him. “You’ve been at Hogwarts this whole time?”

Ignoring him, the ghost’s eyes are locked on the diadem, jaw clenched. “Desecrated. Disgraceful. An insult to my mother’s memory—it must be destroyed.” She raises her eyes, briefly noting the cloak. “Clever. Intended to hide the wearer from Death—and so those of us who have already felt its embrace as well.”

“Intended to…” Hermione shakes her head, brows drawn together in confusion. “I’m so sorry, Helena, but we have no idea what you’re talking about. We haven’t done anything to the diadem, although we noticed something about it was off.”

“Desecrated,” Helena repeats, voice practically a hiss. “He ravaged it. My mother’s legacy, tarnished with the darkest magic on this plane.”

“He who, Helena?” Harry wonders aloud.

But it’s Ron who starts to put it together, freckles stark against the chalk white pallor of his face. “Oh, merlin. I knew it sounded familiar when you mentioned the voice in the back of your head and fucking with your mind, trying to convince you not to go to Remus…just like Gin. Fuck. Helena, the he you mentioned that ruined it, the student you trusted before—was it Tom Riddle?”

Hermione’s skin erupts in goosebumps as she follows his train of thought—hears Harry and Draco both suck in a breath beside her as they put together what Ron’s implying.

“Don’t say his name!” the Grey Lady demands, wispy fists clenching. “I never want to hear his name again, the one who betrayed me. He pretended to care, that he would retrieve the diadem—so it could be returned to its rightful place. That I could attempt to right the wrong I’d done my mother, in my last moments—that she could know I didn’t mean it, wherever she is in the life after this one. I didn’t know, then, what he would become. He was just a student, then, preparing for graduation. I believed him.” Her see-through hair billows behind her, vibrating with her anger. “Instead, he defiled it. Left it out of my reach.”

“And this was all before the war,” Hermione whispers, understanding. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve felt all these years.”

Helena’s mouth twitches, but she blinks back ethereal tears. “None of that matters—the diadem _must_ be destroyed.”

“We will,” Draco swears, eyes honest. “My lady, we’re bringing it to the Defense professor as we speak, and we have the necessary weapons to destroy it.”

Staring, Helena sizes him up, then glances at the other three. She cocks her head to the side when her gaze lands on Harry. “You’re like him, you know. So, so much like that other boy. In more ways than you know—more ways than you’ve ever possibly imagined.”

Harry grimaces. “I—yes, we do have a lot in common. But—I want to do everything I can to be the exact opposite of the person he became; the person he _chose_ to become. And I like to believe the people close to me will keep me in line if I ever seem like I’m becoming a darker version of myself.” He looks to Hermione and Ron nervously, heart thumping when Hermione reaches to squeeze his hand.

“Part of it is out of your control,” Helena murmurs, face pensive, like the words have a double meaning. “But nonetheless, I hope you succeed. I hope the good in you wins out.”

(He wears the familiar frown they all know means he’s scared of himself.)

“Me too,” Harry whispers.

/

They’ve been on edge all year, of course, but Hermione hadn’t quite realized how bad it was until she’s in the boys’ dormitory one Saturday morning, and there’s a stack of pink and red notes and packages at the foot of Harry’s bed.

Neville holds up a hand, giving her a look of disappointment. “Valentine’s day, Hermione. It’s Valentine’s day.” He shakes his head as he finishes tying his tie, looking entirely exasperated with all three of them. “Honestly, you’d think one of you would’ve remembered. I can’t believe you’re my friends.”

“Oi, we’ve been a little stressed, Nev,” Ron says defensively, even as he starts digging through Harry’s pile of gifts. “Why are so many witches in the Potter fan club this year?”

Neville shakes his head as he heads out with a wave, a carefully wrapped box for Pansy in his arms.

“Well _that’s_ because of articles that have come out since Voldemort’s return was publicized—they all think he’s _very _brave and dreamy for sticking up to Umbridge and the rest of the world when they were all calling him crazy.” Hermione mimes a dramatic, infatuated sigh before continuing. “Their interest has been piqued, and then when the news came out that he had—become single, and through losing someone…” she winces, carefully dancing around the topic of Luna. “Let’s just say he’s become something of a tragic romance hero.”

“Because that’s exactly what I need right now,” Harry says dryly. “Ron, save the chocolate for Sof and my dad, but the rest is all yours.”

“I can’t!” Ron exclaims, leaping to his feet. “I have to tell her I love her!”

“Who, Susan?” a baffled Harry asks.

“Romilda Vane, of course!” Ron’s gesticulating wildly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Where is she?”

Harry rubs at his temples. “Dude, we don’t even know a Romilda.”

Hermione gives him a look. “She’s the fifth year I told you about two weeks ago, the one who was talking about slipping you a love potion?”

“Er…right.” Harry makes an apologetic face. “I really should listen to you more. So if she put one in the Valentine’s candy—how do we fix him?”

Hermione groans, grabbing Neville’s pillow to chuck at her brother. “NEWT potions and you don’t even know how to counteract a love potion?”

“Because I have you, and you’re the smartest person in the world!”

“Troll!” she half-yells, pulling at her hair. “You deserve only Trolls. You’re going to die if you don’t learn some potions, I mean that Harry Potter.”

“Do you think Romilda would like a troll?” Ron wonders aloud, eyes far away. “I could catch one to give her as a gift.”

Hermione sighs, pulling her hair up into a ponytail. “Let’s get this one to Slughorn, then, yeah? I don’t have all the ingredients for an antidote here. Actually,” she gasps with wide eyes. “Yes, that’s it. I’ll grab my felix, and we’ll each take a swig, and while we’re there we can ask him about the Riddle memory. Give me a moment.”

“I love you!” Harry calls after her as she runs out of their dorm to grab the golden vial.

Half an hour later, Ron’s looking disgusted and back to his usual self, earning uncontrollable laughter from his two best friends and amused chuckles from the potions professor.

They’ve been working to butter Slughorn up, praising his abilities profusely before asking him to cure Ron, before citing shock that such an incredible wizard as himself doesn’t have Valentine’s plans.

“You both are too sweet to an old man,” he says, though it’s clear he’s basking in the compliments. “Perhaps we should have a drink to celebrate Mister Weasley’s return to his own thoughts then, yes?”

Ron makes a face. “I dunno—”

He yelps as Hermione elbows him to shut up—and on his other side, Harry does the same.

(The felix, then—this is their best chance at success.)

“That would be lovely, Professor,” Hermione beams. “Thank you so much! I know you have plenty of more important people you could be with right now, so we’re so grateful you’re willing to spend part of the holiday with us. I look up to you so much, and as someone who wants to go into Healing I can only hope to be half as skilled as you in the field someday.”

She’s laying it on thick, earning raised eyebrows of disbelief from Ron, but Slughorn is grinning, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, dear. Youth are the future, as they say, so any time with you three is time well spent.”

He reaches into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a fancy-seeming bottle. “Here we are, then. I’d intended this as a gift, actually, but I’ll get him something else, it’s really too good of a bottle for us not to share.”

Hermione’s smiling, and Harry’s eyes are likewise locked on the professor as they try to sweet talk him for later asking for the memory.

So it’s only Ron who’s paying attention, only Ron who notices—the bottle is familiar.

(_“convince someone to give it to him as a gift,” _Draco had said.)

(Poison. The bottle is poisoned.)

He’s pouring it into goblets for the four of them now; Harry and Hermione will surely look and notice in time, but Slughorn won’t—

(This is not at all what Draco had intended—it’s what he’d done everything in his power to avoid.)

(If Slughorn gets caught in the crossfire, he’ll never forgive himself.)

So despite the professor saying they should toast, Ron does the only thing he can come up with in the heat of the moment: snatches up a cup and pours its contents down his throat, “accidentally” knocking over the other three goblets as he does so.

“What on earth—oh, god,” Hermione whispers, terror filling her face as she looks from Ron’s hand to the bottle and sees it for the first time. “Ron—”

He doesn’t have time to respond before he’s falling over, convulsing, beginning to foam at the mouth; it’s excruciating, but—Hermione’s gotten him out of worse spots than this.

(He has faith she’ll get him an antidote before the poison kills him.)

Slughorn’s panicking, and Harry’s just catching on, trying to turn Ron onto his side the way he’s heard should be done with people who are choking.

The pain gets worse, and he knows it’s not the fastest acting poison but feels like he’s running out of time, and he really doesn’t want his death to weigh on Draco’s conscience and also really doesn’t want to _die_—

And then something rough is being forced down his throat, and Hermione’s voice is yelling at him, ordering him to stay with her—

The convulsions stop, and Hermione feels herself breathe for the first time since Ron had started to choke as his heart rate begins to return to normal.

“You’re okay,” she promises, smoothing back a lock of his hair. She meets Harry’s eyes. “We should get him up to Madam Pomfrey anyway, just to check him over and make sure everything’s okay.”

“I…” Slughorn’s sweating, still wide eyed and pale. “I’m so sorry, I hadn’t the slightest idea it was poisoned. I would never—”

“We know you wouldn’t, Professor,” Harry says, expression serious. “It was Voldemort—this isn’t the first time he’s tried to attack someone in the castle.”

Hermione nods. “And it won’t be the last; nothing anyone has done to try to stop him has worked. Until we truly know what we’re up against, we’ll never be able to defeat him. We’ll be looking over our shoulder for attacks like this for the rest of our lives.”

Slughorn’s distraught, and Harry moves a bit closer to him, forcing sad eyes as he goes in for the kill. “Professor—we would do whatever it takes to end this war. Ron almost just _died_—can you imagine, if he’d died in your classroom?” He shudders at the notion, as does the professor.

Frowning, Hermione meets the professor’s eyes. “If _you_ knew something that could help us stop him—make sure nothing like this ever happens again—you would, wouldn’t you, professor? We know you care about your students more than anything. You want him to be beaten as much as anyone.”

“Well, yes, of course I would,” Slughorn says as he fans himself. “But I’m afraid I don’t think I can be of much help.”

“We actually think you might.” She bites her lip, hesitates like she’s nervous to bring it up, before saying, “Professor—he’s made horcuxes.” She pauses, letting the revelation hit him—really sink in, the terrifying implications. “If we can’t find and destroy all of them, he will _never _die. The war, the threats, the chaos—it will never end.”

“We know he asked you about them once,” Harry says softly, trying to seem as unaccusatory as possible. “Of course he did—you know about everything, there would be no one better to ask; and you had no reason not to tell him, you care so much about your students and preparing them to succeed in the world. I know it’s probably a very hard day to think about, but—Professor, you giving us that memory could be what allows us to win this war. We can’t stop him without you.”

(It’s careful, the way they frame it, balancing the wartime chaos that threatens his peaceful lifestyle against the potential to be the reason they win the war.)

He’s thinking about it, though.

(Hermione pounces.)

“Please, professor,” she begs. “If we can’t end the war, I will die. As will everyone like me. You’ve complimented my work so many times, told me what a bright future I’ll have—please don’t let Riddle take that away from me.”

She gestures at Harry to look at Slughorn, and when the older man meets his eyes—Lily Evans’s eyes—she hits him hardest. “I know Harry’s mother was one of your favorite students, too. Her life was lost because of Riddle. Don’t let her sacrifice be in vain. You—”

(And she swallows heavily, because she’s been compared to Lily Evans academically for years—has always been so grateful and thrilled by such a compliment.)

(But in this moment, the similarities between them feel _tangible_, as though she can see her own future playing out just the same; she’s just another muggle born witch in a war for her very existence, knowing she could accomplish so many things but she’ll probably die fighting before then.)

(It _hurts_, the knowing.)

“Don’t let what happened to my mother happen to my best friend,” Harry whispers, knowing his best friend is unable to speak. “No one else has to go through this. Please, Professor—please give us the memory. It’s the only way we can win this war. The only way we’ll survive.”

Slughorn’s trembling, now, eyes watery as he reaches for his wand. He’s silent as he conjures a vial, dragging the silvery wisps from his temple to the inside of the glass. “Don’t think less of me when you’ve seen it,” he whispers, not meeting their gaze. “All I’ve ever wanted is my students’ success.”

“We know, professor,” Harry promises as he reaches for the vial.

(They’re shaking as they levitate Ron to the hospital wing, vial hidden in their robes.)

(Desperately hoping their answers are within.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from safe and sound by taylor swift
> 
> y’all I have no words for HOW EXCITED I am for the Malfoy manor scene. like it’s so far away but I have PLANS and I cannot wait for you to see them omg
> 
> all my love


	35. all the pain and the truth

When they show up at Dumledore’s office with the memory, he’s entirely unsurprised, and doesn’t look especially impressed or pleased that they’ve managed to procure it—just smiles, casually, and opens the doors that hide the pensive.

(Unbothered that he encouraged teenagers to emotionally manipulate a professor, however necessary.)

Something about this meeting feels—different, though.

(Like something big is about to happen.)

The weight of it all, the anticipation and mounting pressure, it crashes over them as they fall into the memory, the very air electrified.

The beginning is the same; the end of a potions class, Tom approaching Slughorn with a dazzling smile.

But this time, when he asks about horcruxes, instead of the warped scream, Slughorn’s expression grows worried. “That’s dark magic, m’boy. What on earth would you want to know about those for?”

Riddle plays it off, of course, citing intellectual curiosity and a need to be prepared; Harry’s clutching at Hermione’s hand as Voldemort’s child self charms his way into seeming innocent even as he inquires about the darkest of magic.

And Hermione’s confused, because the questions he’s asking Slughorn are clearly distractors, things he already knows—she can see a book about dark magics in his schoolbag, making a mental note of the title.

And then he asks the question he really wants to ask, and the pieces fall into place as she sucks in a gasp of understanding.

_“Seven?”_ Harry demands in a whisper beside her.

(Seven pieces of his soul—six horcruxes.)

The diary and ring are gone, of course, and they have the locket and diadem in their possession, but that leaves two others—the snake, as they’d established last year, and god only knows what the last one could possibly be.

(Two final horcruxes they have no idea how to track down.)

The memory ends, and they’re spat back out onto the cool tile of Dumbledore’s office, all silent for a moment as they process their shock.

“Is it possible? Could a person survive splitting their soul that many times? We’re sure he carried out that plan?” she asks the Headmaster, looking to him for information for perhaps the first time in her life.

“While a very intelligent individual, Tom Riddle’s weakness has always been his attachment to significance,” Dumbledore says grimly, with a slight shake of his head. “Having been treated so horribly for so long, he became obsessed with feeling like he belonged in the magical world, and proving it. Seven has historically been seen as a powerful magical number—if he fixated on it for something as important as his soul, I doubt he would’ve been able to focus on anything else until he had succeeded in doing so.”

“But what that would do to a person…” Hermione shudders instinctively.

The older man nods, though he doesn’t look nearly as disturbed; unfortunately, he’s rather unsurprised. “I agree, it is likely the root of the loss of his sanity and humanity, so fractured is his very core. Given the way he produced a new body without the use of any horcrux, it’s arguable that the being he is now is _entirely_ soulless, though I’m not sure about the technicalities of such a thing.”

They’re all quiet, for a moment, taking it in—really, truly attempting to fathom the implications.

“You understand the role you must play in this?” Dumbledore asks, gaze darting between them. “For the remainder of the year, the three of us will attempt to track down and/or destroy the four horcruxes still in commission, but beyond that it will be up to you.”

Harry’s brow furrows, because while they’d already assumed as much, it seems unlike Dumbledore. “What do you mean?”

He sips from a goblet slowly, holding up his injured hand. “My health is ailing. And when the war is in full swing, I will be needed at Hogwarts, to defend the fortress. This is where the battle will come. You two—and Mister Weasley—must find and destroy the horcruxes that remain, or we will have no hope of defeating him.”

Hermione nods, for the first time feeling as though she and Dumbledore are on the same wavelength.

(Have the same understanding of where things are heading.)

“We understand, sir.”

(So many years, they’ve been tiptoeing; so careful, thinking they knew the game.)

(Really, it’s only just begun.)

/

“Do you really have the time to be taking that kind of extracurricular reading onto your plate right now?”

Ron’s voice is completely serious, and when Hermione looks up at him he’s leveling her with a disproving stare. “The bags under your eyes are already out of control, Mione. You need _rest_, not another project. If you don’t take care of yourself you’re going to fall apart, and then where will we all be?”

Harry’s grinning behind him, of course, because she always gives him grief when he fusses over her not taking care of herself.

“This isn’t recreational, unfortunately.” She rubs at her temples as if the motion alone will reduce her headache as she marks her page and closes the book to show it to them.

Harry pulls in a breath of surprise at the cover. “Isn’t that—”

Hermione nods grimly. “The book on horcruxes Riddle had in his bag—Aunt Andy made some trips to Knockturn to get ahold of it for me. I figure we need to know as much about them as Voldemort does.”

“It’s cute, how she finds ways to excuse all the ways she doesn’t take care of herself,” Pansy comments to the others with an eye roll. “Necessary or not, you have too much on your plate, Hermione. You won’t be able to _relay_ any of the information in that book if you collapse, first.”

Harry’s grinning at the way they’re all ganging up on her till Pansy and Ron’s gazes both swivel to him.

The Slytherin raises her eyebrows. “What are _you_ laughing about, idiot? You do the same shit, with your savior complex and inability to ever consider your own well-being. I swear one day I’m going to slip the both of you sleeping draught and keep you knocked out for a week just to keep you functional.”

Draco chuckles faintly, though his attention is mostly on the calculations he’s doing on parchment before him, planning for the Death Eaters’ invasion of Hogwarts.

He’s had the gist of the plan for ages, now, but has refused to leave anything to chance, devising and triple checking every detail of every possible turn of events.

(Fixing the vanishing cabinet. How to keep the rest of the students safe. How to alert the Order and have them come defend the castle without being suspected or anyone being caught in the crossfire.)

And he’s been sleeping even less, having to keep a stock of Polyjuice that Hermione and Pansy have both offered to brew for him but he’s refused to let anyone else do, knowing they’re both already stretched thin as it is.

(Not to mention brewing is…one of the only times he can breathe, these days.)

(His mind is such chaotic hell that he doesn’t truly feel like a person most days, except when he’s brewing, or drinking firewhiskey in the Room of Requirement with all of his clandestine friends, losing himself while fucking Hermione, both of them desperate to feel anything but the numbness and remind the other that they’re so very loved.)

So he brews it himself, though Ginny’s the one to procure different hairs for him to use each week, much more adept as she is for being able to strike up conversations and deftly slip strands into the pockets of her robes without the other parties being any wiser.

And Crabbe and Goyle take it, under the impression that they’re “standing guard”—not that he needs such a thing, but their involvement is a good alibi, two good death eater spawn who will confirm for the Dark Lord just how much of himself he’s devoted to the task at hand.

It doesn’t feel like enough, but—it’s as much as he can do, right now.

_(It has to be enough.)_

The door swings open, slamming with the force only Ginny uses, and they all meet her grim expression expectantly.

“We’re needed on the grounds,” she declares, then makes a face at both her boyfriend and Draco. “Not you two I suppose, that would be too suspicious, but—everyone else.”

Harry scratches the back of his head. “Can we have, like, a half of a detail of explanation, please?”

She grimaces, looking rather less than excited to give details. “Hagrid’s—spider—friend died.”

“Aragog?” Ron shudders at the memory. “Good riddance, that. Bloody menace.”

“You knew an acromantula?” Draco demands with wide eyes. “How do you even get wrapped up in these things?”

“I don’t know if I would use the word _knew_ so much as he attempted to eat us, once, during second year,” Harry says, making a face. “But Ron’s dad’s enchanted muggle car saved us from him and his hundreds of giant spider children, so that was good.”

Blaise shakes his head in disbelief. “Is there any being that has ever been on Hogwarts grounds that _hasn’t_ tried to kill you?”

“Get back to you if I ever find one, but as of yet I think they’re all in this room.”

“Anyway,” Ginny continues, ignoring them all, “He was apparently his first…creature, or friend or ally of any sort, and the only one who was there for him after…” she swallows heavily at the thought of Tom, memories icy splinters up her spine.

(Cold whisper in her mind, body moving without her control, waking up with no memory of the night before and blood on her hands—)

Blaise is at her side instantly, linking their fingers together for her reassurance that she’s not there, anymore.

(Not coming any closer because he knows she can’t bear to be touched, when she gets like this.)

“All of which to _say_,” she stresses, “that he is understandably very distraught, right now. He needs us.”

“Of course.” Hermione gets to her feet immediately, helping Ron and Pansy stand as well. “Should we stop by the greenhouse on the way for flowers, or something? To pay our respects?”

She doesn’t say what they’re all thinking—the thing that makes her, Harry, and Ginny lock guilty, knowing eyes.

(That the person best suited to comfort Hagrid right now is Luna, the only other person who’s ever understood his love for magical creatures.)

(How fucked it is that she’s not here for him, now—that it’ll hurt her too, when she hears, and can’t even write him with her condolences.)

(Because he believes her to be dead. Everyone does.)

So the rest of them disillusion themselves, Harry throwing on the Invisibility Cloak, so they can go out to Hagrid’s cabin despite the hour; Draco forces a smile and a wave as they leave, but Hermione can see how far away he truly is, lost inside what the weeks to come mean for him.

Hagrid is surprised to see them—warmed by their presence, despite the pain of the reasoning behind it.

And it’s—none of them have been around much, lately, busy as they’ve been; and then, the wrongness of going out to the forest without Luna.

But the gamekeeper doesn’t seem to begrudge them any of that; understands, perhaps even more than they do, that love covers time lapses and absence and pain-driven avoidance, because that’s what friendship is.

(What family is.)

And he sobs, as they do the attempt at a ceremony, opening up to them all about his youth more than he ever has; his mother never being around, but his father loving him so much he never noticed, because he had such a happy and loving childhood, despite the racism and discrimination he faced all throughout the wizarding world.

Losing his father, the loneliness and isolation—a kid that didn’t fit in and looked the wrong way during an unforgiving time period; friendless, but able to study magic the way he never thought he’d be able to, and so some semblance of happy all the same.

Finding an egg, all alone, in the wrong conditions; knowing if he didn’t help the acromantula inside would die before ever getting a chance to live. And so he took care of it, ensuring warmth and darkness and all of the things necessary, until Aragog was there—and finally, he had a friend of sorts.

(An odd alliance, to be sure, but—someone to talk to for the first time since losing his dad. Someone who trusted him completely.)

And then, the Slytherin Prefect and gem of the school, beauty and authority and righteous charm, telling Dippet he was the one hurting others.

Hurting _muggleborns_.

(As though he of all people would see the only other people hurting like him as enemies.)

(As though he of all people didn’t know well what it was to be seen as lesser in the wizarding world.)

All hope being lost, having no idea where the fuck he could possibly go, just thirteen and completely alone with no light in sight, and then, as he finished packing his trunk through silent sobs, Dumbledore at the door—and a lifeline.

He could stay in the magical world—could stay at _Hogwarts_.

(_Home._)

And better yet, could work with magical creatures, even without his wand; could love and protect them.

_“I know Dumbledore’s not perfect—maybe he’s even corrupt,”_ Hagrid says at one point, having consumed enough ale to be completely honest about his feelings on the matter. _“He’s done aa lot of things wrong; still does, all the time. But he was—the only one that cared, then. The only reason I’m still alive, y’know? It’s—it’s hard not to feel like I owe him everything. Hard to look at him and see past that moment, thirteen and hopeless planning to live on the muggle streets, and him offering me—everything.”_

Hermione understands him better than ever, just then; the complicated mess of emotions that comes with someone pulling you out of your own personal hell.

(Wonders what she would do if Sirius hadn’t been a good person when he’d done so for her; if she’d have been able to stand against him when he did wrong, after everything.)

But Harry’s own thoughts drift to Voldemort, as they so often do; wondering how he, too, could have been similarly plucked from a shitty home, and yet never develop the same idolization for the headmaster as so many have initially.

And how Dumbledore can have given Hagrid another chance, been so willing to go the extra mile to make sur he was okay; and yet never gave eleven year old Tom a sliver of a chance.

(Might things be different, if he had?)

Either way, Tom is responsible for the damage he’s caused; no one should’ve been _expected_ to save him, love him away from the path to destruction.

But at the same time…Dumbledore is a _teacher_. Along with that comes a certain responsibility, a certain power. Such blatant cruelness and disdain for a student from day one, as a child, from the very people intended to care for you…

(It doesn’t _excuse_ Voldemort’s actions, but it feels like a crime of its own to commit.)

Pansy and Ginny take the lead with a lot of the comforting, knowing Ron is absolute shit and putting feelings into words and Harry and Hermione would just crack horrible jokes because that’s the only way to deal with pain.

(Not to mention they’ve spent the most time with Hagrid, recently, having taken to coming down to visit with him and Grawp at Luna’s behest even after Umbridge’s departure, all throughout the previous term.)

At the end of the night, they’re singing ballads, and Ron’s put on tea for everyone because he turns into his mother whenever he’s not sure what people need, and it’s—a complicated, beautiful and sad moment.

And for it to be Aragog, arguably one of the first victims of Riddle’s treachery so many years ago, _now_, just when the bastard has more power than ever and the entire feels tenuous enough to shatter—

(There are so many funerals still to come; it feels like only the first in a line of dominos.)

But they make the best of it all the same, among friends as they are.

Ginny’s regaling them all with a horrid rendition of a drinking song that makes Hagrid smile; head on Pansy’s shoulder, Harry’s own fast asleep in her lap, Hermione makes a point to cement the memory in her mind.

(A moment of love to cling to.)

/

They haven’t gone home for the Easter holidays in years, as busy as they’ve been, but—

Something feels different, this year.

(Like hair standing on end, a revving car engine—like soon, things will change irrevocably.)

And the time home has been—tense, in a way, but also so incredibly grounding.

Hermione forgets, sometimes, how badly she needs them all in her life, Sirius and Tonks and Ted and Andy and Sofia, and even Remus, who she sees all the time at school, but—it’s different, in the safety of their own place.

And _Teddy_—merlin, does she love her little godson more than this entire planet; she spends hours upon hours just watching him look at the world around them with wonder, cuddling and singing to him and generally just attempting to show him every ounce of love she possesses.

And Luna’s there, of course, which sets Harry’s frayed nerves a bit more at ease, though seeing her life in hiding visibly hurts him; Luna doesn’t seem bothered much, always having been one who’s okay with solitude, happy to be able to do research and mourn and remember her father in her own time.

The only part she appears troubled by is the idea that her death has caused their friends grief; she’s clearly guilty at the thought of them all hurting because of her, though she doesn’t regret the article or the situation at all, is even more adamant than older Order members that her being in hiding is necessary.

(If Voldemort’s failure to kill her is revealed to him, his wrath will be taken out on others—and they might not be able to mitigate those consequences.)

They’re at the burrow for Easter Sunday Brunch; it’s the first time _all_ the Weasley siblings’ soul mates have been in one place, plus the Black/Lupin/Tonks family, so it’s just—_chaos_.

(A dark voice inside Hermione wonders if this will be the only time they’ll all ever be in the same place—how many members of this chaotic, wonderful, loving family will be lost to the war ahead.)

Sofia is sitting with Fleur while she mumbles to Teddy in French, the little boy clapping with glee at his aunt’s strange words while his father are Susan are in deep conversation about politics and the current tone of the ministry.

Meanwhile, Tonks is morphing her hair and features to do a spot on impersonation of Snape that has both Blaise and Daphne bursting into laughter, the twins visibly gaining respect for her at the display. Oliver and Ginny are having a loud and passionate argument about Quidditch strategies that has Harry looking on with interest, while Ron, Bill, and Sirius discuss rock bands, both wizard and muggle.

Arthur’s positively captivated by everything Charlie’s muggle boyfriend has to say, Ted playing mediator and attempting to translate the meanings of unknown muggle terminology, and vice versa, while Charlie himself just listens along.

And it’s just—perfect. Everything about it is so positively wonderful and wholesome and the slice of happiness they all needed, right about now; Hermione can see Molly misty eyed at the head of the table, happy just to look on, and—she’s not the perfect woman, by any means, but in this moment it’s so _tangible_ that the only thing in the world she cares about is her family being okay and happy, and the sight before her is—everything she could ever hope for.

Fleur eventually hands her Teddy, knowing the delight her future mother in law takes in her first grandchild, and comes over to join Hermione and Remus.

“ ‘Ow are you, mon amie?” she asks, pressing kisses to Hermione’s cheeks. “And you, Remus?”

“I’m not your love too?” he asks drily, earning laughter from both women. “I’m very well, Fleur. How’ve you been?”

“As well as can be expected. It is not ze best time for my legislation—ze people currently in power obviously are bigots, so a lot of my work won’t be able to go to ze Wizengamot till after ze war. But we’ve gotten several more donors, and we’re ‘aving success distributing Wolfsbane to several packs regularly and establishing ze organization’s trustworthiness, so—I count it as progress! And wedding planning is a nice—silver lining.”

Her gaze lands on Hermione expectantly, and the younger brunette sighs, knowing to lie would be useless. “I’m…okay. It’s been a very rough year, and it’s looking like things are only going to get harder, but…I’m very lucky to have such good people around me. The best support system.” She nudges Fleur’s shoulder with her own, earning a soft smile and hand squeeze of love from the older woman.

“Viktor mentioned in his most recent letter you invited him to the wedding—it’ll be so good to have everyone together again.”

Grinning, Fleur claps her hands together lightly. “Yes, I am so excited! It will be…right, to ‘ave everyone I care about in one place, at least once before everything in the world…what is zat phrase Ginny is always using?”

Remus groans, having overheard the words muttered in class enough times to know what she means, while Hermione lets out a giggle. “I believe you mean _‘before everything goes to shit’_.”

Fleur and Hermione both snicker at his world-weary expression at the expression, as though his husband isn’t one of the most profane people in the country.

Fleur kisses them both again as she glides away, citing a need to remind Tonks and Fred about a bet they’d made; Harry’s usurping the place she’d been sitting moments later.

“Having a good time?” Hermione asks him with a smile; his eyes are wide with exhilaration, though she knows as much as he loves being around the family the crowd is also overwhelming for someone who spent his entire childhood alone in the cupboard.

“Definitely. I really like Daphne, you know? Not that I ever haven’t, but—the more I talk to her, the more glad I am she’s stuck with us.”

His sister nods. “I think her and Fleur have a lot in common, in some ways. The way they’re perceived, at least.” At Harry’s questioning glance, she explains, “People automatically assume they’re both—bitches, you know? Daphne is quiet and doesn’t really initiate things, which people take as her being mean or rude, when she really just has such bad anxiety, especially in social settings. And Fleur—people see how beautiful, and how aware she is of her own brilliance, and take it as arrogance when she’s just—confident, and knows her own worth, her own strength beyond looks.”

Humming with understanding, he looks between the two with a thoughtful expression. “I’d never thought of it like that.”

Later in the evening, back at Tonks manor, most of the guests and siblings with places of their own have left, with the exception of Tonks and Percy; Sofia’d been knackered and gone straight to bed when they arrived home, so now they’re sitting around playing a card game with Harry, Andy, and Sirius, while Hermione and Remus sit on the floor beside them, having fun entertaining their mutual godson.

The game wraps up, and they all sit down for a bit of the cake Harry had made for the occasion; it’s the night before they return to Hogwarts, though, so the conversation grows somber.

“We finished reading the book, by the way,” Sirius comments, gesturing to himself and Tonks.

(The horcrux book, he means; Hermione had given it to Remus to read as soon as she was done, and he’d grimly passed it along so they could all put their heads together before going forward.)

“We need to figure out what the last one might be, before anything else,” Harry says with a frown. “The diadem ruins our Slytherin-theme theory.”

“But not the potential for them all being founder-based objects,” Remus postulates, face pinched in concentration even as he pats Teddy’s back, the little boy fast asleep in his arms.

Tonks shovels a bite of cake into her mouth before speaking. “Gryffindor’s only associated artifact was the sword, but given that you stabbed it directly through a basilisk’s mouth and it didn’t disintegrate, it’s pretty safe to say that wasn’t one.”

“Goblin made objects only take in that which makes them stronger,” Hermione recites instinctively. “A piece of his soul wouldn’t strengthen the metal.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Basilisk venom though…do you think?” He meets her eyes. “Is it possible?”

Her eyes make it clear she thinks so, but she turns to Remus to concern, him being the expert in the field.

“Yes, that sounds…very plausible,” he sighs. “Which seems dangerous to just be sitting around in Dumbledore’s office, now, but if we ever run out of the fangs Hermione salvaged it’s good to know we have a backup option for destruction without having to resort to fiendfyre.”

“So a Hufflepuff object, maybe,” Tonks muses, reaching to take her son from her best friend as he moves to get a cup of tea. “Harder—Helga had several artifacts and trinkets she treasured.”

“We’ll have to attempt to track them all down,” Sirius says with a grimace, moving to pull his hair into a bun and get it off his neck. “Hopefully it’ll have the same stain of dark magic and we’ll be able to tell…although the book mentioned horcruxes being connected to each other—linked, somehow—so it’s possible we might be able to use one of the others to figure out what it is, where it is.”

“Still have to get the snake,” Harry reminds them. “I mean—we are sure that’s one, right? Because of the visions fourth and fifth year?”

There are murmurs of agreement, and the conversation keeps moving, but—

_(But.)_

Hermione’s never been able to shake the feeling that something about that is off; they’ve never actually been clear on _why_ Harry’s able to see into Voldemort’s mind, or Nagini’s.

(It doesn’t make _sense_.)

She’d like to push it out of her mind, but the last time the pieces didn’t fit this much…

(was when the pieces said Sirius wad a Death Eater and a traitor.)

(she _knows_ to trust her instincts, when they’re telling her facts don’t line up.)

But what could the truth possibly _be_? There’s no explanation for Harry’s connection to Voldemort and his snake that makes sense.

And she’s still bothered by the way he didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary when wearing the diadem, despite how clearly _wrong_ it had been to the rest of the others—why would the horcrux not affect him the same way? Not affect him at all?

Such a thing shouldn’t be possible, unless—unless _what_?

(She can’t figure it out.)

_Something_ is off, something Voldemort’s done affecting Harry; their mind link, the snake, no impact from the diadem, even his knowledge of parsletongue—a genetic ability none of his ancestors are recorded as having, but Tom Riddle does?

How is it possible for him to have Voldemort’s _genetic ability_?

And the way his scar always hurts—

(_A connection to Voldemort_.)

“Oh, god,” she whispers, feeling all the blood rush out of her face as she puts the pieces together. “Fuck. Oh, god.”

(_“You’re like him, you know. So, so much like that other boy. In more ways than you know—more ways than you’ve ever possibly imagined,” _Helena had said.)

(_“Out of your control.”)_

_(“I hope the good in you wins out.”)_

The good _in _him.

Because the bad is in him, too.

(The diadem not affecting him because a horcrux already is.)

“Mia, what’s wrong?” Harry asks, voice gentle.

He’s instantly at her side, as always, eyes immediately wide with concern for her well being—because of course he’s worried about her, kindhearted boy that he is, thinking _she’s_ the one that’s in danger right now, when all along—

She’s numb, though distantly she can feel tears sliding down her cheeks. “It’s not possible,” she whispers hysterically. “Harry, it’s not possible, but—”

(But his mother had just been murdered, and murder is all it takes, murder and an aimless fragment of soul and some sort of vessel—)

“I—god, Harry, I’m so sorry. But I think,” she swallows heavily, trying to hold back shaking and sobs and anger, because this isn’t about her. “I think you’re a horcrux.”

/

The revelation changes everything—and yet also nothing.

The more they consider it, the more research they do, the more comparison to the horcrux text itself, the more everything fits together; Remus speculates that even Voldemort himself doesn’t realize it.

(His unintentional seventh horcrux.)

But they have hope; normally objects have to be destroyed, to eradicate the piece of soul they hold, but it’s different with a person—a living being with a soul of its own.

Andy and Sirius dedicate themselves to going through every Black possession and text that could possibly have useful information on the subject, reaching out to less savory contacts about illicit texts in the hopes that something horcrux related might turn up.

Tonks does the same with Department of Mysteries contacts, though much more carefully, knowing if word gets out that Order members are looking into horcrux info they’re completely fucked.

And Harry…well, he’s doing a good job of seeming unaffected and unsurprised, but—

(Hermione knows her brother.)

He says they’ll worry about it once they’ve finished dealing with the other six and the man’s corporeal body itself, that they have plenty of time to figure out how to destroy the piece of Voldemort’s soul inside him.

(But she knows if it comes down to it, he’ll fall on his own sword to end the monster, to protect them all; will let Voldemort take him out if it makes it possible for everyone else to take him down.)

So there’s nothing more important than making sure it doesn’t get that far; making sure they figure out how to destroy it before things get to that point and he can attempt to sacrifice himself.

(She knows they’ll face loss in this war, knows it’s going to hurt, and there will be a cost to win, but—)

Harry is a price she refuses to pay.

Several weeks later, it’s almost the end of term, and Harry comes into the Chamber where Hermione and Draco are doing homework before the ASA meeting, trepidation in his face.

“What’s happened now?” Hermione asks, instinctively reaching for her wand.

“Nothing _yet_.” He tugs at his hair, angst and tension riddled through him as he sits down beside them. “Note from Dumbledore—lesson next week.” He meets her eyes, jaw tight. “We’re leaving the grounds, for it. He said to dress for terrain. And to brace ourselves.”

Her neck cracks with speed her head shoots upward. “You think he found one?”

“Can’t imagine anything else so dire.”

They’re quiet for a moment, before Draco speaks. “That night, then. I’ll do it that night.”

“You mean—let the death eaters into the castle?” Hermione clarifies, reaching to stroke a thumb along the inside of his arm, knowing how much he hates to talk about it all.

(How much he hates himself for having to do it.)

“Yes. Dumbledore being gone will prove I have intel and make it an ideal circumstance for them all to sneak in, but also will be a good reason for there to be extra precautions, and the rest of the staff on high alert. That way they don’t suspect a mole.”

It’s ideal, honestly; the end of year is far too near for him to put it off any longer.

(Doing so would only make things more volatile.)

“Okay. Right.” Harry blows out a deep breath. “Here we go, then.”

“Things are going to change,” Hermione murmurs quietly. “But it’s time.”

Draco gives a perfunctory nod, anguish exploding in his every cell.

In a week’s time—everything changes.

(The war begins in earnest.)

Other students trickle in a bit later, and they go through the motions, even though it feels impossible for things to be normal right now with what’s coming.

(The air seems to crackle, and the three of them carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from warrior by demi lovato  
There have been so many new readers the last few chapters—welcome!! thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. so glad to have you on board!  
all my love


	36. I saw you in the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some exact lines from HBP in here bc fleur is a bad bitch and queen of my heart

They spend the entire week before preparing; stressed and too anxious to sleep, the nervous anticipation ripples around them.

(It’s visible, how on edge they all are.)

Hermione meets with McGonagall early in the week—careful, so careful about what she says.

“Our informant has reason to believe the Order should be on standby next Sunday—but they _mustn’t _know we know about the invasion.” Her eyes beg her head of house to understand—to know that if anyone suspects they were warned, her soulmate’s life will be the price. “The headmaster will be away from Hogwarts that night; Order members should all be informed that they’re merely on call in case anything _happens_ to go wrong in his absence.”

McGonagall nods in agreement, even as she begins to jot down a list of the strongest members in a duel, all of whom she’ll send missives to in a bit. “I expect I won’t be able to keep you and Mister Potter from the fight even if I try?”

Hermione’s lips twitch. “Naturally. Well, Harry will be with Professor Dumbledore, actually; but yes, I intend to help protect the castle. I will also be informing ASA members of the situation, when the time comes, so that they too may defend their home if they wish.”

The older woman raises her eyebrows, disbelief coloring her expression. “Albus is taking him off grounds, and you’re not demanding to join them?”

“The situation is…delicate.” Hermione scowls. “The mission they’re going on—Dumbledore believes protective enchantments will dictate only one wizard may enter.”

“Ah,” McGonagall nods with understanding. “And you’re of age.”

“Exactly. Although…truth be told, I’d prefer to be here anyway. As much as I love Harry and want to be there with him, this is one night I think I’m needed at Hogwarts.”

(They don’t mention what they both know—that she doesn’t just mean for the sake of the battle.)

/

_Watch for the mark_, Draco had instructed, and so she does; stares up at the sky relentlessly, getting up to face before being so anxious she can’t help but sit back at the windowsill.

(Harry’s been gone for an hour, now.)

Harry’s half of the communicating mirror set Sirius had gifted his son is in the hand not gripping her wand; Luna’s on the other end with Sirius, actively watching her skin for any word from Harry should things with Dumbledore go south.

(It’s unlikely anything too bad could happen, but—)

(They’re not willing to take any chances.)

The sky is full of dark clouds, like nature itself knows what’s coming, wind speed steadily rising along with Hermione’s blood pressure.

And it kills her to wait, to know what’s coming and not be able to stand at the ready, but—

(To prepare would be to compromise Draco.)

Even if she were able to bear such a thing—to be like Cedric, strong enough to value the good of the many over the love of her life—the reality is that Draco being a double agent truly _has_ saved so many lives—will only continue to be more and more crucial to saving others as the war grows.

(It’s imperative for the good of the Order that no one suspect him.)

So she watches the sky, grinds her teeth and clenches her fists on the edges of the mirror as the storm swirls before her.

A crackle of thunder, and then lightning throws light over the whole sky, and then—

(She’d almost mistake it for another flash of lightning, if she weren’t paying attention.)

But it’s just a bit off—

And then she’s looking up at the astronomy tower where they’d watched the twins stunned a year ago, where they’d broken out a convict that would become the only parent they’d ever known, where they’d smuggled a baby dragon at age eleven—

_(Fate—it always brings them back to that tower.)_

And there it is, grim and ghostly.

(The dark mark ripples as it moves through the air.)

/

Ginny hadn’t questioned it when Hermione asked her to host an ASA open study hall that night—just be in the Chamber, hanging out with any members who wanted to hang out and revise or play drinking games or anything else under the sun.

(She knows Hermione well enough to know the look of urgency she gets—to trust her judgement implicitly, even when she doesn’t have the details, yet.)

So when there’s rapping on the door until one of them moves to open it from within, Harry being gone and Aaliyah spending the evening in her own House’s common room for once, she’s not all that surprised to find Hermine with her hair pulled back tightly, the way she only ever does it when she means business.

“Death Eaters in the castle,” Hermione says firmly, eyes wide but expression fierce as she braces herself for battle.

Ginny just nods once; beside her, Pansy tugs up her own sleeves in preparation, both of them needing nothing further to follow their friend’s lead.

“Who are we telling?” Ginny asks.

Making a face, Hermione only hesitates for a moment. “Everyone deserves to know. But the younger ones need to stay here till someone comes to give them the all clear—only OWL year or older should fight, and only if they want to.”

She descends into the main hall of the Chamber, where beanbags and couches and tables are currently arranged, countless students lounging about, all doing their own thing.

(It pains her, having to be the one to destroy this moment of peace—to bring this darkness into their sacred space.)

But this is what it is to protect those you love—to tell them the hard truths. To stay strong and impenetrable even when your own world is crumbling.

(This is the good part of what it is to be a Gryffindor.)

And so she tells them; stares down Dennis Creevey and his Ravenclaw best friend when they demand to be allowed to duel.

“Part of being brave means accepting when a fight isn’t yours,” Hermione tells her younger housemate, voice gentle but unwavering. Then, more loudly, to the room she says, “ASA has always been about preparing for this day—and all the days after. And if you are fifth year or older and want to stand with us, I would be nothing short of honored to have you at my side.

“But,” she continues, eyeing them all. “We are all students—this is a fight that should never have become ours in the first place. If you don’t _want_ to fight, or if you’re scared, or if you have family on the other side and won’t be safe if you’re seen standing with the light—that’s _okay_. And it doesn’t make you any less one of us. Any less _family_.”

Dennis opens his mouth like he’s going to argue some more, and she holds up a finger to shush him. “And if you’re younger, and angry, because it feels unfair that you have to stay behind. Or because you feel guilty hiding in safety while everyone else is in danger.” She shakes her head, and it’s only when she feels something on her chin that she realizes tears have begun to run silently down her face. “Know that your safety is _why_ we fight—because you shouldn’t _have_ to. Know that unfortunately, there probably will come a time when you do have to, and us not letting you do it now is not because we don’t trust you, but because we want you to survive long enough to win when you _do_ have to fight. Because if you’re in the fight, we’ll all be so worried about making sure you’re okay we won’t be watching our own backs. I need you to trust me when I say that you staying behind is what will keep _all_ of us as safe as possible.”

Ginny and Pansy flank her, and even without looking she knows they’re glaring at anyone sending her dirty looks, stopping any arguments before they even begin.

“I’ve already sent for the—organization of resistance fighters Dumbledore leads. They’ll be here as well, doing the brunt of the fighting, but—if you intend to fight…we leave now.”

/

There’s not time to question exactly _how_ they’re atop the tower; Dumbledore is keeling over, and then Harry is immobilized beneath the invisibility cloak, the door is slamming open, and Draco is bursting out onto the brick, out of breath and eyes wild.

Draco had been reluctant when Hermione forced a vial with the last drops of her felix into his hand, but in this moment, when it very likely will mean the difference between life and death for him…

(He loves his soul mate, so much.)

His gaze darts around the scene before him, to Dumbledore, standing as serene as though he weren’t on the verge of collapse moments prior, looking down on him as though he can see into his soul—as though he’s not worried at all, despite Draco’s wand pointed at his chest.

“Hello, Draco.” The familiar way he addresses him—

In a way, it almost hurts, that this man he hates, this man who doesn’t know him at all can see through his evil act—and yet the rest of the world is so ready to assume the worst.

“Stay back,” Draco commands, wand arm steady even as his voice shakes.

“You don’t have to do this, Draco,” Dumbledore says gently.

More of a formality than anything—it seems clear they both know Dumbledore won’t walk away from this night.

“You have no idea what I do and don’t have to do,” Draco bites out, anger spiking through him for the briefest of moments. “I don’t have a choice.”

He searches for any distortion in the air, knowing Harry must be nearby beneath the invisibility cloak; he’s been listening for the telltale open and shut of the door behind him as his friend leaves, but he doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.

(Why isn’t he running to help the rest of ASA? He knows they’re fighting, knows he’s supposed to go to them—why isn’t he sticking to the plan?)

Whatever the reason, Draco knows him better than most people in this world—trusts him enough to know there must be a good reason he’s staying up here with them.

He needs to do it, he knows, and yet—

The felix tells him to wait—just a moment more.

Then the door _does_ fly open, but instead of fading the sound of footsteps comes closer; Amycus’s gait is singular enough his identity is obvious even from beneath his hood, which means the other is Alecto, of course.

Uncle Severus is right on their tails, though, and he doesn’t even spare Draco a glance—just waves him to the side before facing the headmaster himself.

“Severus,” Dumbledore says, voice tired.

(Just this once, he almost looks his age—faint, and small, no trace of the most powerful wizard alive.)

(Just an old man who’s lived too long, fought too hard, seen too much loss—he’s done so many things wrong, and yet in this moment Draco can’t help but feel overwhelming sorrow on his behalf.)

He meets Snape’s eyes again, holding up his injured hand in a pleading gesture. “Severus, please.”

Only a lifetime of closely watching his godfather lets Draco see it—the flicker of remorse and dread in the set of Snape’s jaw, the millisecond he waits to raise his wand.

But he does—Draco tears his gaze back to the headmaster as his godfather begins to speak the killing curse, and just before the body falls he catches it.

(In Dumbledore’s cruel blue eyes—there’s _relief_.)

His heart is thundering louder than anything else, and in the beat before any of the other Death Eaters move he hears the faintest of steps.

(Harry, just now escaping to join the fray—)

(as though perhaps he couldn’t, before. Body bind, maybe.)

It’s—all Draco can think about is that it’s done.

(The task that’s consumed his year, the act he’d done so much to avoid—)

(Despite all his best efforts, it happened anyway; the leader of the resistance. Gone.)

The anxiety of the year begins to abate even as the horror of a world without Dumbledore’s implications begin to settle onto him

/

Even with a year and a half of extra dueling practice, fighting the Death Eaters is…

(Countless near misses.)

It’s only luck they’ve all managed to dodge avada’s thus far; a few are stunned, Pansy has a nasty cut bleeding profusely, and Hermione hears an awful thud of Padma’s body being slammed against a brick wall, but—

(Alive.)

(They’re all still alive.)

They’re not making much progress taking out Voldemort’s minions, but—they’re holding them off, stalling until the Order arrives, and maybe that’s enough.

(It has to be enough.)

It’s the Department of Mysteries all over again, and Hermione’s chest tightens at the memory—the visceral pain of her own injuries, Harry and Draco both almost dying.

She’s firing off spell after spell, as is everyone around her, but they’re working so hard to defend themselves they don’t have the energy to go on the offensive—

And then the door slams open and Fleur is there, blonde hair gleaming like a beacon of hope as she charges into the corridor, taking out two Death Eaters with a singular wave of her wand.

It’s Bellatrix who turns her wand on her, then, and they’re locked in the most lethal of duels, twirling so deftly it would be a beautiful dance if not for the green jets of light that keep singing each other’s robes.

Other Order members rush in behind her, Bill and Cedric taking over where Neville and Ginny have been battling the Carrow twins; the two ASA members lean up against the wall, panting, at the reprieve, before attempting to jump back in.

One of Neville’s eyes is blackened, so his depth perception is off, but he keeps fighting nonetheless. At his side, Ginny fires off hex after hex; they’re both in front of Ron, who’d been taken down by a reducto.

(They’d checked his crumpled form and found a pulse, if only a faint one.)

Hermione shields from a slicing hex sent from across the room, chills climbing up her spine at the sound of Cho’s hiss of pain when a crucio hits her in the back while distracted. Tonks is there instantly, though, taking out the Death Eater responsible—

(And watching her duel, the skill with which she strategically plows through every dark cloak in her path—her prowess as an Auror has never been more clear.)

She’s taking them out, sending them flying straight into each other so that they crash to the floor like dominos; just behind her, Sirius fights like a madman, a stealthy chaos they never see coming until it’s too late.

(Two Black tempers, with auror training and a personal itch for vengeance at the group that’s already threatened both their children’s lives—)

(They leave nothing but destruction and collapse in their wake.)

The twins are there too, and Hermione keeps spotting various ASA members and Hogwarts staff in between casting.

But there’s one face that should be there—one that’s nowhere to be found.

_(Where the fuck is her brother?)_

She knows Harry wouldn’t want her to try to fight him when she could be there, protecting the others, but she’ll never forgive herself if something’s happened to him.

Harry’d given her the map, so if she can just get away from the commotion for long enough to find him on it—surely he and Dumbledore must be back by now.

They have the upper hand, but then the lights flicker, and more death eaters arrive on the scene.

(Reinforcements Voldemort hadn’t bothered to mention to Draco.)

And then it’s all they can do to stay afloat—they’re overwhelmed, and the Order fighters are stronger but the other side has numbers.

There’s a guttural male scream, at one point—and then, even worse, it abruptly cuts off.

_(Bill.)_

There’s not time to worry about it now—all there is is trying to keep fighting long enough to take them out.

Lavender’s sobbing, then, and Parvati attempts to stun Greyback where he sinks his fangs into her girlfriend’s skin; when the stunner only forces his knees to bend, she goes full muggle, launching herself at him and physically removing him from Lavender’s now still form.

(He’s growling, and she’ll probably die in a moment, but all she can feel is her girlfriend’s blood soaking the floor beneath her.)

Greyback howls, and then Parvati feels all of her senses go white—and then _pain_—

(His foot shattering her femur.)

Then his claws are nearing her throat, and it’s all she can do to hope what she’s done is enough to give the rest of ASA a chance, enough to keep Lavender breathing long enough for Madam Pomfrey to save her—

But someone’s roaring _“No!”_ and then Greyback is being thrown from her.

And it’s Remus—Remus is there, pitching himself at the older werewolf with a lifetime of resentment and rage and hatred.

“You turned me,” Remus bites out, flicking spell after spell nonverbally at the alpha who bit him so very long ago. “You’ve terrorized families for decades. You turned a little girl who is now my daughter.”

Another wave of his wand and Greyback cries out, blisters popping up all along his skin as the Charms professor’s magic burns every inch exposed.

“But you will not hurt anyone else ever again.” Remus’s eyes are stony, jaw set in steel, but it’s not vindictiveness that drives him.

He swallows, sadness churning with relief as he quietly says, “Avada kedavra.”

(After so long, the monster from so many nightmares falls.)

It feels as though the battle picks up pace, then; Greyback’s death makes the Order’s chance at winning feel _tangible_, almost.

(And makes the Death Eaters realize they too might be taken out—they’re riskier, spells darker and stronger.)

Hermione shudders at the scene around her, holding back sobs as she steps over Lavender’s body, firing off curses even as she wonders whether her roommate is still breathing.

_(Stay alive.)_

_(Just keep breathing.)_

She hisses as a slicing hex flies across her ribs, as a flying brick breaks her fingers, as a brief crucio singes her nervous system.

(Pain’s nothing new to her, after all.)

She can still feel the adrenaline of it all, but the stress, the fight—all of it’s catching up with her.

(Instead of a bust of energy the hormone just has her hands shaking, now, weight behind her eyes heavy.)

They’re starting to gain on the Death Eaters, again, but the exhaustion is taking its toll, and she’s just so _tired_—

“Hermione!”

She has to blink, for a moment, as Harry appears beside her.

(Her heart feels _right_, when he’s there; her natural state is when she’s fighting right beside him.)

They take out another masked Death Eater, and then Harry’s eyes are wide and pleading, staring into her soul. “I need to find Snape.”

“Harry, what? Why—”

“I can’t—” His lip trembles, gaze darting back and forth before he grabs her arm, and they hazardously race out toward the first floor corridor.

“We have to find him, Hermione.”

His expression is crazed, but—her brother has only ever felt this strongly with good reason.

“Draco was supposed, but then—he couldn’t, and then—it seemed—but it wasn’t—and then he—he did it. Snape, Snape did it, and then he was falling and it—I just—I don’t know what—”

“Harry.” She grabs his shoulders, grip gentle but firm. “I need you to breathe, and then tell me exactly what happened.”

(The terror in his face is palpable at the notion; he’s in shock, and even still she can feel that something is very, very wrong.)

“Harry, whatever it is, I will believe you. I will be right beside you. Just tell me, and we’ll get through whatever this is, okay?”

He forces out a shaky breath. “Snape—he killed Dumbledore. Draco was there, but he couldn’t, and then—Snape did. I was under a body-bind, so I couldn’t—”

“Oh, Harry,” she reaches to smooth back his hair, the way she always has when his anxiety ramps up. “Harry, I know you’d do everything you possibly could. This isn’t your fault.”

“I have to find—I don’t understand. Because it was supposed to be Draco, but not Draco, and—I know we don’t—I mean, didn’t—like Dumbledore, but he’s supposed to be on our side, so if Snape killed him he can’t be on our side, right? But Draco knows him best, and he said he was, so I just…” he trails off, chest moving rapidly with the racing of his heart. “Draco didn’t have to do it, though. That’s good, right? He did everything else so he should be okay?”

“I hope so,” Hermione whispers. “I don’t know, Harry, I don’t—I don’t know what any of this means. All I know is I’m glad you’re okay. The rest we will—figure out, somehow. Your dads will know what to do. Snape…Harry, I know you want answers now, but I think going after him now will only make things worse. If he _is _a traitor, he’ll fight back, and even if he’s not we could expose him, or he could have to do something to hurt you to maintain his cover. That could be what killing Dumbledore was about in the first place—proving his allegiance, same as Draco. I—I worry that if we try to do anything now we’ll but them both in danger.”

(As desperate as he is to make sense of it all, Draco’s his sister’s soulmate. Family.)

(Putting him at risk isn’t an option.)

Harry rubs at his eyes, nodding. “You’re right. I…okay. We should—go back to the battle, I guess.”

She nods grimly, before reaching to gently squeeze an arm around him. “I’m sorry you had to see it, Harry. “

“Yeah, me too,” he whispers with a snort.

They’re quiet for a beat, and then he’s laughing—just, out of control, chaotic laughter, because of fucking _course_ this is where they are.

“I can’t believe I just watched our headmaster die,” he says, shaking his head with disbelief. “Why the hell not.”

Hermione’s lips twitch upward with humor. “It is pretty fucking typical, the way our lives have gone. Never a dull moment.”

They keep laughing for a beat, just overwhelmed, and weighed down, and on the verge of a psychotic break, and so they—of course they laugh.

(What else can they do? How else can all of it possibly be bearable if they don’t laugh about it?)

They hurry back to where the fighting is taking place, but it’s almost over, now; some Death Eaters taken out, others having scattered, recalled to Voldemort’s side.

It’s nearly empty—Neville and Cho are already attempting to clear up some of the debris, and Hannah’s walking around checking on everyone and distributing waters and blood replenishing potions, Astoria protective at her side.

Neville comes up to make sure they’re both okay, looking exhausted but okay. He gives a half-hearted smile. “Glad you’re okay, Harry. Hermione, an honor to fight with you—again, I guess.”

“Back at you,” she replies, reaching to gently squeeze his arm. “No one I’d rather have at my side for prefect patrol _or_ a battle for our lives.”

Harry’s quiet—in shock, still—but Neville doesn’t push, just nods with understanding. “I think most of the Order is in the hospital wing; Pansy went to keep Gin company.”

Hermione thanks him, and she and Harry both quickly make their way in that direction, knowing better than to ask any follow up questions.

(If the worst is true, they can’t handle hearing it there, in the midst of everything.)

They’re quiet as they race through the halls, both shutting down to avoiding feeling it all, going numb so they don’t have to think about what they might be walking into.

(Dissociation’s gotten them this far in life, after all.)

They can hear Molly crying quietly when they come in, but Percy’s ranting about something, which—seems like a good sign.

Bill’s in a hospital bed—skin horribly distorted and scarred, but breathing; Fleur’s expressionless at his side, even as Molly dabs at his skin from the other.

Lavender’s there, too, but already conscious, and on the other side of the wing with Parvati and Professor McGonagall beside her; Hermione can spot the muffling charm thrown up between them, that the Order members not be overheard.

“—can’t believe you didn’t even _call_ to give me the chance to—”

Tonks scoffs at him from where she’s laid up in a hospital bed. “Percy, you know you’re shit at dueling, if you’d come I’d have to have been watching your back the whole time, and my ability to fight would’ve been completely compromised.” She brightens as she catches sight of Harry and Hermione entering. “Oh, thank merlin! I’m so glad you two are okay—come make this worrywart leave me alone, would you?”

Sirius moves to hug them both, relief visibly coursing through him; Remus smiles, clearly trying to give them some space, but they both catch the way his gaze carefully catalogues their bodies for injury.

(Knowing they won’t have said anything if they’re injured—won’t bother anyone to heal them, even if they need it.)

“Hermione, sit so I can heal you. Harry, take at least two invigoration draughts.”

She makes a face. “I’m fine, really, Remus, I—”

Sirius levels her with a glare, taking a beat and noticing exactly what his husband had. “Let him set your dislocated shoulder and the broken ribs or I’ll cut off your muggle ice cream supply.”

“Mia!” Harry says disapprovingly in between downing the vials as directed. “You really weren’t going to say anything?”

“Oh, shut up, you’ve done just as bad,” she mutters, not meeting his eyes as she climbs onto the bed beside Tonks; the motion jostles her bad shoulder and she has to hold back a wince lest she prove them right.

She knows Remus sees through her, though, and he gives her a look as he waves his wand over her.

Molly’s sobs grow just a bit louder as she dabs at Bill’s face, stroking back a lock of hair. “His looks don’t mean anything, of course, it—it doesn’t matter. B-but he was always so handsome…such a beautiful boy…and he was g-going to be married.”

Harry reaches for Hermione’s hand, body going tense, and she looks up to meet Cedric’s eye across the room—only the three of them realizing exactly how bad this is about to get.

“_Excuse_ me?” Fleur’s voice is but a whisper, but she gains volume at a steady pace as she continues speaking. “What do you mean by zat? What exactly are you trying to say, ‘e was _going_ to be married?”

Molly looks surprised at the outburst, stricken expression unsure of where this is going. “I—well, I—”

“You think Bill will not wish to marry me anymore? That because of ‘is attack, ‘e will not love me?”

Arthur looks worried, but Ginny’s grinning wickedly from where she sits, sandwiched between Pansy and George.

(She loves her mother, but after a lifetime of dealing with her outdated notions, the judging and hatred of women who don’t conform to what she expects, or make the choices she would—)

(Well, her mother needs to be called out, sometimes.)

Fred, having a good friendship with his future sister-in-law, looks similarly entertained; it’s not just the current drama, but the self-righteousness his mother always espouses—and not just her, but so many of the families on the light side, all the way up to Dumbeldore.

(They think they know best because they’re on the “right” side—but how can a side that claims to be about support and inclusiveness and love spread such judgement and hate? It’s—exhausting, all of it, and it’s about time someone said something about it.)

“No, that’s not what I—” Molly backpedals, clearly trying to defuse Fleur’s anger before she can truly lay into her.

“It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill loving me!”

The older woman sighs, pursing her lips. “Well, sure, that might be true, but I thought perhaps—given how—how he—”

Fleur’s nostrils flare, and she has her tongue in cheek to keep herself from biting out the plethora of angry retorts she itches to lob at the woman who raised her soul mate—the woman who never gave her a chance; and now, when everyone should be coming together to care for and support their fallen, is instead making this night that’s already horrible and difficult even worse, starting a fight and weaving passive aggressive insults into her comments that show _exactly_ how little she thinks of Fleur.

(Because of course, instead of considering Fleur’s own concern and grief for her fiancé, Molly’s using the moment to make it clear that she assumes the worst of her.)

But Fleur’s used to this—has lived through a lifetime of her family being discriminated against, a lifetime of being assumed shallow and stupid because she’s beautiful, a lifetime of being dismissed and watching her work and accomplishments be overlooked, every moment of success and support assumed to be rooted in her looks by every outside on the planet.

(A mother in law thinking she’s superficial is fucking annoying, but truly the _least_ of her problems.)

“You assumed I would not wish to marry ‘im? Or per’aps you _‘oped_?” Fleur crosses her arms, planting her feet firmly on the floor. “Non. What do I care ‘ow ‘e looks? Such things mean nothing—and even if zey did, I am plenty good-looking enough for both of us!”

She gives a bitter laugh as she shakes her head at the older woman. “I did not agree to marry Bill because ‘e was sexy—which ‘e still is, thank you very much. But I fell in love with ‘im as a school girl, getting messages all along ‘er arms and ankles from a boy in England who just wanted to make ‘er smile. I fell in love with a man who started learning French so ‘e could write good morning on our ‘ands in my native language, who could tell when I was upset and knew I didn’t need ‘im to fight my battles for me but always offered to be my second in a duel should I need one. I intended to marry ‘im long before I ever knew ‘e was ze most beautiful man in my world.”

Fleur snatches the ointment from the older woman, eyes only on Bill. “And ‘e still is. All ze scars show is zat my ‘usband is brave—and zat _I_ am lucky to ‘ave ‘im. Zey show zat I am marrying a courageous man who will always fight at my side to defend our ‘ome, to fight for what is right, to protect those we love. Zese scars only make me love ‘im more.”

They’re quiet, for a moment—everyone is.

Ginny has a hand clamped to her mouth, and she turns to press her face into Pansy’s shoulder, the way her shoulders shaking giving any onlookers the impression she’s crying—

But Pansy meets Hermione’s gaze with an eye roll that confirms the redhead is, in fact, laughing her ass off.

“Remind me to send her flowers,” Tonks whispers to Hermione, quiet enough that no one can hear. “Excited for a lifetime of Christmases at the table with that one.”

After a few more moments of silence—of Molly watching Fleur deftly tend to her fiance’s wounds, face expressionless again, but eyes narrowed with worry, and love—

(It’s the face of someone staying strong for everyone around them—someone keeping it together because they know they can’t afford to fall apart, focusing because their feelings matter least, all that matters is that the people they love are okay.)

(Because their worst fear just flashed before their eyes and they can’t bear to consider what might’ve happened if things hadn’t worked out the way they did.)

And Molly swallows heavily, because that expression—

(so, so very familiar.)

(It’s all she’s ever done—conceal her fear, her anxiety, her sorrow.)

(Tamped down her grief over the baby they’d lost the pregnancy after Charlie because you can’t mourn when there are two little boys who need you.)

(Hidden the way she cried from post-partum after Ron’s birth because even at her lowest, their comfort came before her, and being a mother means nothing in this world matters but if your children are okay, even when being alive is _hard_ and it hurts to _breathe_—)

“Our Great Auntie Muriel,” she says quietly, tentatively taking a step closer to her future daughter-in-law. “Has a very beautiful tiara I believe I can persuade her to lend you for the wedding. It would look lovely with your hair.”

And it doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s one of the only family heirlooms they have—the only physical thing she can offer, the only possession of value they have that might convey a welcome to the family.

(She’s never been much good at putting aside her pride, or apologizing, but—she wants to try. Knows this _matters_—knows she fucked up.)

“Thank you.” Fleur’s visibly tense, but she doesn’t throw the offer back in her face, which—feels like progress. “I am sure zat will be lovely.”

Her mother in law takes another step closer, and Fleur watches the way she worriedly stares down at Bill.

She’s been unfair to Fleur, but—odds are Molly assumed she would only use Bill and flounce away to someone more in her league, appearance wise and leave him heartbroken.

(It’s not right, but all she’s ever wanted is her family to be safe and happy; it’s visible in her face, that it’s the only thing in the world that matters to the older woman.)

And Fleur hasn’t exactly been herself when people she loves are on the line—memories of setting Triwizard judges on fire come to mind.

(Lashing out at people with the potential to harm your family…well, that much Fleur can understand.)

She reaches out a hand, and Molly’s own shakes as she reaches to take it—

And then somehow they’re hugging, quietly crying, no words spoken but the language of emotions and understanding and pain, the language between women that requires no translation.

The others begin to speak amongst themselves, attempting to give them some semblance of privacy, and Hermione forces a half-hearted smile as Harry sits at her bedside. “We’ve really got to stop ending up in here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I mean…”

He trails off, but she knows what he wants to say—that by virtue of them going on the run next year, they’ll finally manage a term without one or both of them landing in the hospital wing—because of course that’s what it would take for such a thing to happen.”

Ron sleepily comes to in the bed between Tonks and Bill, making a face at the bickering between Tonks and Percy. “What in the bloody hell are you two on about now? Where’s Teddy?”

“With my parents,” Tonks says cheerfully. “Never bring a baby to a battle.”

“Or your significant other, apparently,” Percy mutters, “Even if they’re your soul mate and the _father of said child_.”

“It would’ve just made you worry unnecessarily, and put us both in more danger. Besides, even if you _weren’t _shit in a fight we should never both go into a fight at the same time anyway—do you want to leave _said child_ an orphan? Kid already has Black blood and Weasley genes, he doesn’t need one more thing against him.”

Percy pulls at his hair, throwing her a scathing glance. “I really and truly hate you sometimes.”

“Good thing you love me more.” When his expression doesn’t change, she sighs reaching for his hand. “If I agree to marry you will you stop being mad?”

He flicks her hand, but his lip curls upward despite himself. “Perhaps.”

She smiles, shifting her hair bright golden. “I’ll marry you, then. Where’s my ring?”

“What, after a year of me proposing and being shot down you think you can just change your mind one day and I’ll _happen_ to have it with me?”

His soul mate raises an eyebrow. “Percy, love, I would be willing to bet the entirety of my Gringotts vault that you haven’t gone anywhere without it since you bought it. I know you have it on you, you heathen, hand it over.”

Percy rolls his eyes even as he can’t help but smile. “Don’t know why I put up with you.” He reaches into his pocket, reversing the shrinking spell he’d placed on the velvet box before popping it open and proffering it to her.

She smiles—genuinely, no teasing this time. “It really is beautiful, love. And I can’t wait to marry you.”

“Wouldn’t know it after the twelve rejections,” Percy mumbles, but he’s smiling too, and it’s—as much as they tease and squabble and disagree, they both love it.

(They’re the perfect opposites.)

“Well, put it on me then, lover boy!” She wiggles the fingers of her left hand at him, earning a fond snicker as Percy acquiesces, sliding the band so silver it’s nearly white onto her ring finger, where the three yellow gems shine.

The other Weasleys all clap and cheer lightly, earning winks from Tonks and causing Percy to blush bright red.

“Can’t believe you’re bringing a Puff into the family,” Fred teases.

Cedric snorts, arms crossed across his broad chest. “Probably not the best thing to say when two of the best fighters in the room are Puffs, mate.

Fred opens his mouth to retort, but before he can the door swings open, and McGonagall is there, flanked by Moody and Kingsley, all of their expressions grim.

Harry’s smile fades, expression going dark.

(Only one thing could put that expression on their faces.)

(He’d almost managed to forget, for a moment.)

“Albus…” McGonagall clears her throat, visibly shaken. “Albus is dead.”

/

_He slips through the hallway with the rest; they didn’t even realize he was nowhere to be seen during the battle, don’t pay much mind to his presence on the wrong side of the castle, now._

_(But then, they’ve never noticed him much, have they?)_

_The only time anyone paid him any mind was ages ago, when he’d been the only one with the guts to call Potter out on his bullshit, and somehow they’d all thought him in the wrong._

_(Sheep. They’ll see who comes out of this war on top.)_

_Months of watching, and waiting_

_The Dark Lord had made his instructions clear—had told him to strike tonight, when his actions are to be lost amidst the chaos of Dumbledore’s initial absence, of Death Eaters in the castle._

_(The Granger mudblood won’t realize he’s sabotaged her until it’s too late.)_

_It’s not his house, but no one questions his presence—why would they?_

_(he’s just a Hufflepuff, after all. Harmless.)_

_(Everyone believes them too focused on rainbows and harmony to cause harm; they’ll learn how very wrong they are about him, eventually.)_

_There are offhanded smiles in his direction once he enters Gryffindor tower, no one paying him much mind. He hides by the staircase, waits for the right person to walk by—then casts an imperius._

_Romilda’s expression goes blank as she follows his direction, up the staircase he can’t climb. She quickly makes her way into the dormitory beside her own, the target in question’s chambers, doing as he orders._

_When she returns to the entryway, he lifts the curse without a trace; she slips back into consciousness without suspicion._

_Blinking, she smiles at him. “Oh, hi Zacharias! Good to see you.”_

_He nods, and she’s walking away, and he’s leaving Gryffindor tower._

_The damage is done, with no one the wiser._

_(he’s just a Hufflepuff, after all.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from cringe by matt maeson
> 
> hi friends. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long—I’m a teacher so the beginning of school has been BEYOND hectic, and my mental health is taking a downward spiral, so writing has just been…hard. And I don't want my itch to get chapters out to make me release subpar chapters that don’t live up to the rest of this story I’ve put so much into, so I’ve been trying to let myself wait till it came out right. But hopefully the next will be out relatively soon!
> 
> my trans and enby loves—you are valid, and perfect, and so, so very loved. I’m so sorry there are others who seek to tell you otherwise. you deserve so much more than this cruelty. never believe you are anything less than pure magic.
> 
> one last hbp chapter coming soon w funeral//implications//etc. love y’all


	37. we go down together

It's hours before things calm down enough for her to sneak away to the room of requirement.

There’s the chaos of realizing Dumbledore’s dead, the scramble of what it means for Hogwarts—for all of the wizarding world

Draco’s at the fireplace in an oversized hoodie, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment in his fist.

The paper doesn’t look old, exactly, but—the folds are worn.

(Like he’s been unfolding and refolding it repeatedly for hours, desperately intaking the letter’s contents over and over.)

She nearly falls in her haste to get to him, arms tight around his waist. “Thank god you’re okay.”

His grip on her own skin is even tighter—reassuring himself that she’s here.

(That she’s _alive_.)

“Everyone’s alright?” he chokes out, face buried in her hair.

Hermione nods, letting him stroke her back as though comforting her when he’s the one that needs the solace. “We’re all still breathing. Bill and Lavender have some recovery ahead—magical wounds, and all that—but Madam Pomfrey was able to patch everyone else up just fine.”

She hesitates before asking, but—best to get it out of the way. “Has—has he said anything about whether you—whether it’s enough, or not?”

Flashing the letter in hand, Draco nods. “From my mother. He’s displeased that I wasn’t the one to dispatch Dumbledore, but—since I was successful in getting the Death Eaters in the castle, and Dumbledore _is_ dead…he’s decided he’s feeling generous. Willing to overlook my failure, since I’ve proven my loyalty and diligence, if not my strength.” He swallows heavily. “It feels like the worst kind of luck. The most terrible reprieve.”

She gently drags her nails back and forth along his scalp. “None of this is your fault, Draco. I promise. You always so you believe in me more than anything, so _believe me_ about this. Voldemort would’ve found a way somehow even if you weren’t in the picture—at least this way you're doing more good than could’ve been done without your insight.”

He’s still, and she eventually coaxes him out of his robes and into sweats for pajamas, talks him into drinking some tea she’d slipped a sleeping draught into.

(Knowing he’d never be able to fall asleep, otherwise—never be able to get the image of Dumbledore falling from behind his eyes.)

(She’d had to do the same to Harry just an hour before.)

Once his eyes flutter shut, she sighs tiredly, stroking his cheekbone as he holds her tight even in sleep.

“We’ll get through this, somehow.” Thinking back to Lily’s words to Sirius, she repeats them aloud, whispering to herself, _“we haven’t made it this far to only make it this far.”_

/

The last few weeks of term are pure chaos.

They thought they’d seen every side Hogwarts had in years past, after the Chamber was opened, after the tournament and a death on grounds, after Umbridge.

But this…this is like nothing else in the school’s history.

Exams are cancelled, which—is obviously for the best, as no one has it in them to pretend to care about something as trivial as a fucking _test_ when the war has been on their very campus.

(When their very lives are at stake.)

The downside is that there’s no structure, no rhythm to the days beyond meals and attempts to process their feelings, aimless and hopeless as they stare into the abyss.

(If Dumbledore was the only one Voldemort ever feared…what does a world without him look like?)

(What chance do the Order’s efforts stand, without their strongest champion in the front lines? Without the power and alliances he’d amassed over the decades behind them?)

The one good thing about it all—and the one Voldemort never could’ve predicted, with has lack of understanding where love and friendship and compassion are concerned, is the way house unity skyrockets like never before.

The four houses, commiserating and drawn together by their shared suffering, by the overpowering fear and sense of helplessness they’re all suffocating in—they just congeal like nothing else, lines between red, green, blue, and yellow blurring.

_(Because how can what quality a hat decided your eleven year old self valued matter when there’s so much at stake?)_

_(How can it possibly divide them when they have a much graver enemy to fight?)_

ASA is spending more time together than ever, both inside the Chamber and out; there’s less need for the secrecy, with McGonagall as interim Headmistress, and everyone falling apart altogether.

Hermione spends most days reading, or playing drinking games with some of the older crowd to distract themselves—Hannah, Blaise, Neville, Pansy, Ginny, of course.

(Harry’s not one for alcohol, much.)

It’s funny, because any other year, this would be their dream, so many empty days they’re allowed to fill with nothingness, with fucking around with their friends and just being teenagers, for once.

Instead, every free moment is a reminder of the peril ahead; the vacancy in the Headmaster’s office that the minister gets to permanently fill.

(As they begin to hear whispers of corruption in the ministry, as every copy of the Prophet grows more and more clearly altered, pointedly in favor of Voldemort’s pawns in positions of power.)

Remus makes his quarters a safe haven for any and all students—casts undetectable extension charms on the space whenever too many students show up, never turning anyone away. He keeps a running stock of hot chocolate, and tea, and sleeping draught and invigoration draught both (though Hermione and Pansy do the brewing for him, as his heightened senses make potions a painful experience).

He and Lavender sit for a delicate brunch, one morning, talking through the more delicate aspects of her newfound condition—the Gryffindor finds herself fascinated by all the information on werewolves she’d never had a clue about; the way she’d considered herself educated and open-minded, but carried so many of her own preconceived notions and negative stereotypes that had been internalized in childhood.

And Hermione can’t help but notice the difference, between this end of year and all the others; it’s not their first battle by far, but—it’s the first one everyone else has been privy to. The first they haven’t felt alone in.

(The first time they haven’t felt isolated, after, experiencing grief and trauma as the rest of the school goes on their merry way—the first time they’re able to process alongside all of their peers.)

It sucks that this one is hurting everyone, but—it’s comforting, in a way they’ve never had before.

(Her heart leaps at the sight of this different part of Harry—the one who isn’t in silent agony while everyone around him smiles, who’s able to talk to all of his friends about what he’s going through and what he’s feeling, and see his own suffering reflected back.)

(Validated.)

She’s always done her best to give him that; knows he’d argue she has, but—it’s different, when you have an entire team in your corner.

Winky’s cross with her, ticked that her mistress once again put her life on the line and managed to sustain serious injury without calling for help; she’d demanded Hermione call for everything she needs for the rest of term, has regularly apparated into the air before her to snatch burdens from her hands if she doesn’t oblige.

It’s—the best and worst time, somehow.

(The preemptive goodbyes they all say—the _just in case_ goes unsaid, though they’re all so, so careful to make the rounds, give extra long hugs, extra meaningful late night talks.)

(Who knows when they’ll all be together again—)

(Who knows who will even _survive_ till then.)

Hermione goes numb with the weight of it all—wants to cry, _knows_ it would hurt her enough to if she just let it, but—there’s just too much.

(She’s always shut down emotionally when things get bad.)

So she forces frowns, squeezes shoulders tight, makes promises and reminds all of her friends, all of ASA how much they mean to her—tries to inspire them all to hope despite the circumstances that good will out.

It’s odd, knowing your world is falling apart around you and yet not being able to feel the hit of it all, yet.

She has tea with McGonagall, the day before the train; neither of them makes any attempt to pretend the situation isn’t dire.

Hermione doesn’t mention that she won’t be returning, but somehow her head of house knows, she thinks—happens to mention useful security spells, safe locations away from prying eyes.

(Her confidence in Hermione’s abilities and strength. How much she cares for her.)

Hermione has to blink back the burning in her eyes at the affirmation from the woman she’s looked up to for so many years.

She still has such a hard time with relationships with older woman, the betrayal by her mother burned into her brain and making her distrustful of anyone intended to protect her, so it’s—scary, and daunting, how much her favorite teacher’s approval means.

(All she can do is hope to live up to it—and hope McGonagall doesn’t let her down, too.)

(But all humans err.)

It feels final—like the next time they’re together, things will be different.

/

By the time they arrive at the day of the funeral, everything is—all kinds of complicated.

Hermione can’t tell whether Harry or Draco is in more pain, both overcome with guilt and trepidation at the world left before them.

The train is leaving directly after the ceremony, so they all spend the morning packing; Ginny slinks into her room, sitting on Hermione’s bed and folding laundry by hand under the guise of helping.

(Really, her friend knows she just can’t bear to be alone right now—can’t bear the weight the silence places on her chest, the downward spiral it allows her thoughts to tumble down.

(The opposite of Harry, who’d specifically asked for a bit of time to himself before they were to head down—needed it, to be able to process everything.)

Once all of her things are packed and sent to be loaded on to the train, she puts on the long sleeved velvet black dress robes Sirius had sent for the occasion, beaded bag over her shoulder the only pop of brightness on her person.

On her way down to the grounds, though, she has this feeling in her gut—just knows something is wrong.

(Knows Draco is drowning.)

So she asks Ginny to load her trunk, borrows the invisibility cloak, and finds him in the room of requirement, taking swigs from a bottle of firewhiskey as he stares at a portrait of Dumbledore.

Hermione leans up against the door watching him, for a moment; knowing he’s aware she’s there despite not reacting to her presence in the slightest.

“You’re acting like me, turning to alcohol when your life goes to shit.”

He doesn’t react, which—scares her a little, if she’s honest.

(Only the darkest of headspaces would keep him from even rolling his eyes.)

“He was a horrible person,” Draco whispers, eyes locked on where his knuckles are white from gripping the bottle so tightly. “I’m the reason he’s dead. Does that make me even worse than him? For letting things get that far—not doing anything to help save him before it was too late? He was the leader of the Order, despite everything else…what if we can’t defeat Voldemort without him?

Hermione moves to his side, reaching to remove the glass from his grasp and take his hands in hers, tightly squeezing his fingers so he can feel her through the numbness of it all. “Hey, no. Listen, you did—_everything_, Draco. I have watched you do everything you possibly could, take every precaution in your power, for the last year. You did everything humanly possible to save him. He had the warning from McGonagall, he’d seen the aftermath of your previous attempts…he was well aware attempts were being made on his life.”

Her soul mate shakes his head slightly, lip trembling. “I just don’t understand. There were no preventative measures or protective enchantments, no security…he didn’t even fight back.” He whispers the last bit, voice so soft Hermione nearly thinks she imagined it.

“Which is odd, but—” she hesitates before confessing, “Honestly, it makes me wonder whether he didn’t intend for this outcome. Whether he wasn’t okay with his death. Strongest duelist alive—for him to not even attempt it? Especially someone as accomplished at wandless magic as Dumbledore was…it doesn’t add up unless it was intentional.”

Draco’s brows draw together in thought. “A queen sacrificed that her knights might get to their opponent’s king. So that the Dark Lord will think he’s winning, when all the while…”

_(Like Ron, allowing himself to be brutalized so she and Harry could go on during their first year chess match—the first time they’d ever gone head to head with the dark wizard in question.)_

“It must be a possibility, don’t you think? It’s the only way it all makes sense—Dumbledore’s actions, the Snape you know and the one in the Order also being the one to cast the curse…”

She sighs, sliding her fingers through his hair gently, feeling her chest relax as the set of his shoulders grows less tense. “And knowing you, I’m going to guess your guilt is exacerbated by the fact that a part of you is probably glad Dumbledore is dead, after everything he’s allowed Harry to suffer, the danger he’s put so many people in, the horrible way he’s treated your house and the interhouse fighting and animosity he’s contributed to while in a sacred position.

He doesn’t respond verbally, but she takes his lack of refusal as admittance.

“And Draco, that’s—that’s _okay_. We can grieve what the world has lost and that a life is gone while also acknowledging that he was a shitty person who enabled countless atrocities that we might be better off without. Feeling that way doesn’t make you any worse of a person than Harry or I, and you’ve spent too many hundreds of hours reassuring us over the years not to think so.”

Draco hums his understanding, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

He wets his lips as he searches for the right words. “I feel like…this has been so much of our relationship lately. Me falling apart, you having to comfort me. I—I don’t want to be a drain on you.”

“That is not what this is, Romeo.” Her voice is soft, though her tone chides him. “You’ve been drowning lately, so it’s my turn to comfort you. You’ve spent years doing the same for me, and I’m sure we’ll both keep falling apart once we make it through all of this. Being here when you need me is _not_ a drain; loving you will never be a burden.”

Draco surges upward, catching her mouth with his—soft, at first, and then demanding.

She can’t help the sigh that escapes her as she matches his pace, as she gladly tilts her head when his mouth moves to her neck, as she arches up toward him the moment her shirt is off.

Her nails graze along the muscles of his back, the ones she praises whoever invented Quidditch for every time she sees him bare, and he chuckles darkly as he leaves bruises all down her throat, her collarbone, her chest.

Hermione’s already begun to beg and plead for him by the time he finally sinks home; there’s nothing else in the world, and time seems to stop when they’re together—wholly safe, and loved, feeling nothing but _good_ as they lose themselves in each other, the only time they can truly forget the rest of the hell around them.

She’s humming contentedly as he whispers in her ear, the words he’s carefully crafted over the years, perfectly timed to make her come undone while she does everything in her power to urge him to do the same.

After, with a soft quilt pulled over the both of them, she burrows into his chest where she still lays overtop him, curling her limbs around him in a faint attempt to claim the warmth of his body as her own, a faint attempt to sear this one moment of peace into her memory.

(Hands trailing up and down her spine, holding her tight to him like it’s his last day, Draco does the same.)

“I—you know this isn’t—that I’m not…” Draco makes a face. “I know there have been rumors—since no one knows about us. You know that I’m not—just using you, this, to try to escape. You mean so much more to me than that.”

“I know,” she promises, pressing her lips to his jaw gently.

And of course she does—she’s the other half of him. The one whose shape matches that of his soul.

(The one who’s loved him since before he knew who he was.)

“And I think some day when we have the time and ability to see a mind healer, they’ll say we’ve both absolutely turned to physical release when things have gone to shit. But we’re not there yet. And you’re the love of my life; if we us that to our advantage because it makes the dark days more bearable I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

Draco twirls a lock of her hair in his fingers, eyes closed even as he smiles. “Can’t wait to marry you, baby.”

Hermione laughs lightly at the earnest way he says it, the way he desperately pulls her closer, like he’d drag her to the Ministry right this moment if she’d allow it. “Have to survive the next year first.”

She means it to come out teasingly, but somewhere along the way the words grow somber, and she finds herself swallowing thickly as she really considers what they’re about to face.

(Alone.)

“Hey, I thought it was my day to be emo and pessimistic.”

Rolling her eyes, she sighs, pulling the blanket higher over their shoulders.

“I keep thinking we’re headed into the worst summer yet, and then the next tops it,” she murmurs into his neck. “I’d be impressed by the universe for constantly one-upping itself if it weren’t quite so horrid.”

“Honestly, it’d be nice if it didn’t feel the need to go to so much trouble.” He sighs. “I do think by this time next year it’ll be decided, though. Which is a terrifying thought, but—relieving, at the same time. We can’t go on like this forever.”

“Hope so.” Hermione props herself up on her elbows, eyes searching him. “Promise me you’ll fight—that even when things get dark, even if something happens to me, you won’t give up.

“Mia, you are _not _going to—”

“I’m a mudblood and best friends with Harry fucking Potter, I very well might.” She raises her chin defiantly, daring him to prove her wrong. “I can’t go into this if I don’t know you’ll come out of it okay, no matter what.”

“I’m just as likely to be offed as you,” he mutters with a scowl.

“_Draco._”

He clenches his jaw, but nods, albeit reluctantly. “I promise.”

She lets out a deep breath, shoulders relaxing as she lets herself lean into him for one last moment. “For what it’s worth, I promise, too.”

“Oh, I don’t need your promise. Blaise and Pansy have strict instructions that if anything happens to me they’re to stick to you like glue and keep you alive, or I’ll haunt them forever.”

“Of course they do.” Rolling her eyes, she begins tugging her dress back on, helping him to his feet and reaching to hold his face between her hands. “I love you more than this whole world, you know.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “That’s how I know I’m the luckiest wizard in the world, despite it all.”

Hermione gags, “Ugh, no, that’s too mushy for me. Put the sweet nothings away.”

Draco chuckles but acquiesces as he pulls his own robes on.

“Are you ready?”

For the funeral, but also for what comes after—the summer to come.

(And the war beyond.)

Hermione gives a bitter shrug. “As I’ll ever be.”

/

By the time she makes it down to the funeral, the rest of the audience is in place; Harry squeezes her hand gratefully, well aware she’s only attending for his sake, while Ron levels her with raised eyebrows and a knowing look that shows he can guess exactly what kept her.

It’s a beautiful ceremony—a sea of witches and wizards too numerous to count, merpeople poking their heads up from the lake, the centaur herd, countless other representatives from magical communities around the world, all there to commemorate Dumbledore’s life.

Which—it’s almost more frustrating, that it’s such a beautiful ceremony. Such an outpouring of love and respect for the loss of a man whose actions have cost so many lives.

(How many have gone to unmarked graves on his watch? How many losses has he been a party to and deemed necessary for the greater good?)

(People never were individuals to him, after all—nothing but a means to an end.)

Harry’s at war with himself the entire time, trying to reconcile his anger and guilt with the part of him that can’t help but grieve the man who was the first to pull him from the hell that was the only home he’d ever known.

(A hell of Dumbledore’s own design, and yet something deep in Harry’s brain won’t allow him to do away with a misplaced sense of affection and gratitude and debt.)

(It’s—hard, navigating feelings towards people who’ve hurt you when it’s all you’ve known for so long; when you thought they were a hero, once, even if you’ve long since been proven otherwise in the worst of ways.)

When the service ends, and everyone is milling about, quiet conversations filling the overwhelming silence as they all take turns levitating flowers onto the earth-covered tomb.

(The only headmaster to ever be lain to rest at Hogwarts—but which of his actions make him singularly worthy as such?)

(A man who incited division and allowed harm to befall students, while Flitwick, who had sacrificed his life in defense of a student, in defense of the school’s safety, had been buried in a lone grave on the edge of an empty plot near Hogsmeade.)

(_Where’s the justice? _Hermione wants to demand.)

Harry turns to Neville, Ginny, and Pansy, clearing his throat before speaking for the first time in hours. “The three of us won’t be coming back next year.”

Ginny cocks an unimpressed eyebrow with a snort. “Uh, yeah, we figured.”

“Yes, thank you for that scintillating announcement, Lord Potter, but you are utterly predictable,” Pansy adds. “We’ve known for a month.”

“How does everyone always—er, never mind that.” He scratches at the back of his head uncertainly. “I only bring it up, because—well, we’d be happy to have you, if you want to come with us.”

Neville gives a small smile. “Thanks, mate. I know we’d all love to, but—if we did who would be left to protect the younger students who can’t defend themselves yet? Who haven’t found their place in all this?” He shakes his head, expression grim. “Now more than ever, this place will be the first battleground. Someone needs to be here to make sure there _is _always help at Hogwarts for those who ask for it.”

“One thing the bastard said I ever agreed with,” Hermione mutters, nodding with understanding.

Taking his hand, Pansy grimaces likewise. “I have to stay to. My defiance is being tolerated now, but if I were to leave altogether and join the Light movement with the golden trio…well, let’s just say they’d find new targets to take their rage out on. Ones that would hurt much more than myself.”

She meets Hermione’s eyes, gaze meaningful, and the other girl understands—Darrow and his wife, she means.

“I bet you can do more good here anyway,” Hermione says, reaching to squeeze her shoulder with understanding.

“Besides,” Pansy clenches her jaw. “I want to spend every day reminding them of what they did to Luna.

Ron turns to his sister, eyes pleading. “Gin? Please?”

(He’s so desperate because he knows it’s futile.)

“You know I can’t go when there are kids here who need me.” She nudges his shoulder with hers. “You would do the same. And Professor Lupin needs allies on campus—students who can do the things he can’t get away with.”

Her brother makes a face, but—he understands.

(How could he not?)

“You lot had better take care of yourselves, at least,” he grumbles, glaring at them each in turn. “If anything happens I’ll learn necromancy just so I can throttle you myself.”

“And use ASA,” Hermione adds. “It’s an invaluable network with impenetrable security—I’ll set your galleon to be the master, instead of mine.”

Neville balks. “Oh, I couldn’t—”

“You’re Gryffindor prefect—yes, you can,” she insists, staring him down. “You are brave, and compassionate, and exactly the kind of leader Hogwarts needs when things are at their darkest. I wouldn’t be leaving if I didn’t know the people I care about are in the most capable possible hands.”

Neville flushes scarlet, but Pansy intertwines her fingers with his, running the thumb of her other hand up and down his arm with quiet pride.

It’s a brutal transition, from the somber mood of the funeral, mournful violins in the background, to the noisy bustle of the Hogwarts Express—though even that is subdued, the student body not quite sure how to proceed with business as usual when things are so clearly anything but.

There are too many eyes, and a spy they still haven’t uncovered, so they don’t risk sharing a warded compartment with Draco and Blaise; the three of them get their own, and even without any spellwork, everyone can see they mean to be left alone.

(They’re given a wide berth, though they can see younger students whisper as they peek in their window when they pass by.)

Harry clears his throat eventually, laying across one seat and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s odd—to feel like you’re leaving home when it hasn’t felt like a home in so long.”

Ron’s quiet, knowing he’ll never quite understand, but Hermione nods her agreement. “I can’t help but feel like we’re losing something, even though I know it’s been gone for so long. But we’ve always had—at least the _illusion_ of peace and safety there. Strange to be leaving for good.”

“We’ll come back someday,” Ron insists, ever the optimist to counter their cloudy skies. “Maybe not anytime soon, but—that’s what home is, isn’t it? The place you can always come back to? The place you’ll always be welcome, the place where the people you love are? I think someday that will be true again.”

“Maybe,” Harry whispers. He sits up, pulling his cloak tighter around him. “I have no idea what comes next, but—I’m glad to have both of you with me. Thank you for being willing to—I mean, if you’ve changed your minds, or—”

“Shut up, Harry,” they say in unison, Ron accompanying the comment with a seat cushion chucked at his best friend.

“I mean I had to at least _offer_ you an out, didn’t I?’

“Whatever you say,” Hermione mutters with raised hands. “Regardless, we’re not going anywhere.”

(They’re all staring out the window, lost in thought, when the castle disappears from view.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the one by the chainsmokers
> 
> Hi friends! Sorry this took longer than planned—life has really been throwing some curveballs my way but I love you dearly and continue to be so very grateful for this community.
> 
> Next chapter: summer, order meetings, possibly bill/fleur’s wedding if I can fit it all! 
> 
> All my love.


	38. it's a normal thing to feel like this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deathly hallows here we go!!! My god I can’t believe we’ve made it this far.  
Thank you for sticking with me through this story—I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am. It’s now been a year of writing it and I can’t even fathom what it’s become.   
Thank you.  
This story arc is the one I’m most excited for yet, and I’m just hoping to do it justice

Aunt Andy picks them up at the train station, Sirius at the castle helping Remus finish packing everything he needs from his classroom for the summer (they’d offered to floo them home, but it seemed wrong to miss out on their last ride on the train).

And then they sleep—for nearly a week, she and Harry both lock themselves in his room and do nothing but sleep, and stare at the wall, and play muggle tv in the background that neither of them is actually paying attention to.

They’re in and out of depression naps—which they’ve had before, but never accompanied by this level of sheer overworked physical exhaustion as the toll the year has taken finally hits.

Occasionally, Harry wakes to find Hermione snoring at his side; snuggles closer protectively, as though he can protect her from the horrors of the world, even though he knows better than to think he can protect anyone from anything.

As time passes, they begin to feel guilt at their listlessness, but they can’t bring themselves to do anything else, too overcome with the sheer exhaustion and hopelessness there hadn’t been time to process all year, on top of the decade of trauma they’ll be forever attempting to work through.

/

Harry opens his clenched fist at the dinner table one night, dropping what he and Dumbledore had retrieved to the table with a clatter.

Remus frowns at the familiar locket. “But we already—” he sniffs, brows drawing together with confusion. “There’s no dark magic residue. It’s a fake?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirms, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. “Harry says all the precautions were up, protective enchantments intact—everything pointed to it being the real deal until he opened it and found the note addressed to Voldemort, from a follower that had turned. We know from Kreacher how it happened, of course, but…”

Harry frowns nervously as he pushes the metal relic towards his father. “There’s a note. He—well, you read it.”

A heavy swallow, and Sirius accepts it, thumb gently stroking the signoff. “Such a prat,” he mutters, though his voice is thick. “He always wrote initials instead of his name, since we were—since we were kids.” A sniff as he blinks back complicated tears. “Thought it was pretentious for ages, but—then one day I realized it was his way of distancing himself from the Black name, as much as such a thing was possible for him. Separating himself from the blood supremacist legacy.” He shakes his head, feeling his chest tighten. “And I still never realized till he was gone.”

“He didn’t want you to, Pads,” Remus reminds him gently. “He hid it well because that was the goal. An inside man’s worth lies in their ability to be convincing. You did nothing wrong, and your brother knew you loved him.”

Sirius nods, rubbing at his eyes. “I want to keep the note—proudest I’ve ever been of him. But—the locket itself we should give to Kreacher, since we have to destroy the real one. He—he’d like to have something of Reg’s, and it’s what the fucker would’ve wanted.”

Hermione’s heart swells with pride, and Remus moves to summon the house elf in question as Sirius heads towards their chambers, to barricade himself long enough to process the emotions.

“So we still have no idea where to find the other two,” Hermione murmurs pragmatically, brows knit with worry. “And knowing now that the locations have been so bizarrely different, attempting to find them will be difficult.”

“We’ll have to look into his family more too.” Harry’s finger traces along his scar unconsciously, a nervous habit he’d picked up years ago when it began to burn. “The ring and the locket have both been at non-magical sites connected to his past. Even with the memories, I feel like there’s so much we don’t know…”

“We’ll figure it out,” his sister reassures him gently. “Somehow.” Her eyes glance at the door Sirius had gone through. “I hate this—I hate that he has so much control over us. Over our happiness. Regulus has been gone for so long, and it’s still painful in new ways. It never fucking ends.” She clenches her fists, even as she trembles with emotion. “I’m so _tired _of horrible men doing horrible things and the rest of us having to just…Harry, we _have_ to stop him. I can’t bear this life if men like him have all the power.”

Harry reaches for her hand. “We will.”

They return to their comatose state in his room, curled up on opposite sides of the bed and napping to keep from thinking about it all.

When she’s awake, she catches herself staring down at the blank spot on her wrist where they’d once written _x’_s on the bad days.

(it’s too unsafe for even that, now—and even if it weren’t, there’d be no use.)

(every day is a bad day when the Dark Lord is living in your house.)

/

When they pull it together enough to be conscious, they’re still numb to the world—in their moments of functionality; it’s all they can do to get war preparations handled as necessary.

They take a day—just the two of them, Remus, and Tonks, and go to Little Whinging.

Tonks takes no care in obliviating the Dursleys, not the slightest bit interested in arguing with them when she is _saving their lives_ (reluctantly, she might add; she’d only agreed to it for Dudley’s sake).

Instead, she stupefies them and levitates them into the car while Harry helps Dudley finish packing. Hermione assists Remus with getting them all lunch, and it’s only once they’ve eaten and loaded up the car that they drive to the airport.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Harry asks, worrying at his lip with his teeth. “Maybe we could send a protective detail—”

“We’ve been over this, Harry,” Remus reminds him gently. “Any connection to the wizarding world will make them easier for Voldemort to find and thus less safe.”

His son grimaces. “I know. It just—feels like we’re not doing enough to help.”

Dudley reaches to clap him on the back, giving a tight smile. “You’re doing—much more than we deserve. We’ll be okay. Really.” He makes a face. “The only thing is—I know we can’t stay in contact, while all of this is going on, but—will you reach out to me, when all of this is over? So I can—see you again, and know you’re alright?”

“Of course. And we’ll bring you back, unless you want to stay there, and—I can take a train to see you, or something.”

Both boys hesitate for a moment, and then Dudley lurches forward, throwing his arms around Harry for an awkward but tight hug.

(Their relationship, and Dudley’s sense of security, gone for the forseeable future—just two more casualties in the war.)

(Hermione wonders to herself why all of their pain is still nothing but collateral damage to the rest of the world.)

/

Teddy’s on Harry’s lap, and Hermione can tell the toddler is the only thing keeping her brother from losing his cool at this shitshow of an Order meeting.

And she can’t blame him—she’s never been half as impulsive and even she wants to scream at the absurdity of the people around them.

“We still don’t know what side Snape is on—”

“—if Dumbledore trusted him—”

“Fat lot of good that did him, isn’t it? You want to be the next one the traitor turns his wand on?”

“Regardless,” Kingsley enunciates, voice emanating through the room and quieting the others, “Of how we may feel about Severus, the fact of the matter is that we’ve received confirmation he’s been appointed headmaster.”

The room erupts in yelling even worse than before, everyone speaking over each other as they all attempt to process the revelation.

Kingsley raises a hand for them all to quiet down, biting back a weary sigh. “Whatever the case of his allegiance, either way he will certainly be presenting himself as a loyal Death Eater—his appointment is precisely the foothold of power over Hogwarts Voldemort has always been after. Traitor or spy, Snape will have to run the castle as though it is an extension of the dark side.”

“There’s more,” Moody says gruffly, magical eye swiveling around the room, constantly looking for threats. “The political upheaval we’re seeing in the ministry is worse than even during the first war. Scrimgeour has already has several attempts on his life, and even if they remain unsuccessful things are tumultuous enough I don’t believe we’ll make it through Christmas before he’s deposed.”

“They’re gaining power,” Percy agrees, expression grim. Tonks is tucked into his side, half listening and half snickering at the way her son has the boy who lived wrapped around his finger. “Umbridge has plans to unveil some sort of motion soon…I don’t know the specifics, they still don’t trust me as of late, but I know it has something to do with blood status and Dolores is far too gleeful about it for it to be anything but horrific.”

(None of them trust him anymore because news of his and Tonks’s elopement got out, of course—anyone married to such a famous half-blooded light side warrior needed careful scrutiny, naturally.)

“At any rate, Hogwarts won’t be safe for Harry this year,” Molly frets. “Hermione either, I’d wager.”

Sirius nods in agreement. “Remus and I think so as well. We’ve already decided to keep them home, strengthen our protective enchantments.”

They’ve done no such thing, and Harry and Hermione haven’t mentioned the venture they’re planning, but—

(somehow, Hermione thinks her best friend’s fathers already know.)

(They’ve always had an impeccable knack for knowing exactly what they need before they process it themselves.)

“And her parents are okay with that?” Arthur checks, eyebrows narrowed worriedly. “You haven’t mentioned them in ages.”

Hermione stiffens, blood going icy. “It’s a nonissue.”

Meanwhile, Harry’s father offers a vindictive grin. “I plead the fifth.”

“That’s _American_,” Percy mutters with an eye roll, not at all surprised by the implication

“Sirius, you can’t just—if we face an inquisition, or—”

“We won’t,” Remus reassures them all, his own expression equally unapologetic. “I helped.”

Molly’s cheeks begin to redden, but Andromeda waves away her worry. “Oh, calm down, love, it’s not as though they murdered them. Unfortunately,” she mutters, with an annoyed expression that makes it clear she’d suggested it at the time.

It only gets worse, as the summer goes on.

The ministry staff continue to shuffle—small things here and there, injuries and illness and administrative leave—

Many seemingly innocuous coincidences until most all of the known members of the Light have been ousted, and the regime changing is steadily whittling away any light side policies in place.

The paper’s completely overrun by Voldemort’s puppets, distorting the stories, making people start to question if what they’ve always thought is good is truly that; and Rita’s pieces on Dumbledore, accompanied by snippets of the upcoming biography, only make matters worse.

(After all, if the greatest good there ever was was a monster all along—might Voldemort not be the villain, in the end?)

_If allowing nonhumans and non-purebloods in the magical world has brought us to this point, this darkness and chaos and war_—so many begin to believe the web of lies she weaves.

Hermione seethes, nails biting into her hands until they bleed, screaming into pillows until her throat is hoarse.

(It’s convenient, isn’t it, to tell ourselves the beast we must defeat needn’t be fought after all?)

(To become the wronged party—to simply allow someone else to bear the burden, that we might be able to return to some semblance of normal life after they’re out of the way?)

“Humanity will never learn from our predecessors’ mistakes, will we?” she wonders in a whisper, tired eyes staring at the books weighing down her shelves.

Muggle and magical, they all tell the same stories, the same tired prejudices and injustices playing out over and over again because people simply can’t help themselves, are too privileged and blind to see the atrocities they’re committing because they’re so desensitized to the kind of harm human beings can cause one another—

“It’s exhausting,” Luna’s wispy voice comments from the doorway.

She’s been spending much more time with Hermione, lately—the loneliness of months and months pretending to be dead, with no one but the Black-Tonks-Lupin family for company.

(It’s eating away at her, the loneliness. The inability to contribute anything, to see anything in the world.)

Luna’s reading to pass the time, of course, but she’s also found plenty of new hobbies and interests to pass the time—is now able to do every variation of hair braid, spends hours learning to cook and bake with Ted every day, and above all has begun immersing herself in every aspect of muggle culture—books, shows, anything and everything.

(It’s a whole other world out there, and learning about it all makes her feel less trapped.)

“We can’t lose hope, though,” Luna reminds her—as she does often, ever the voice of reason. “That’s how they win.”

“I know.” Hermione tugs at her own hair from the roots, mind chaotic darkness. “But I—I can’t breathe when I think about what we’re up against. I’m so _tired_ of having to argue about my own right to exist, when the opposition is trying to take away my civil rights because of the coincidence of my birth. I’m tired of having to fight to take up any space in this world. Not knowing if any of the people I love will survive till a year from now.” She sucks in a breath, realizing what she’s said. “Luna, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” the blonde promises, eyes sad but not offended. “You’re right. And losing my father makes it all the more clear what’s at stake; I know better than most how easily we can lose the people most important to us right now. And the biggest person in my life is the one with the greatest target on his back of all.”

Hermione swallows thickly, squeezing her friend’s hand. “I’ll protect him. Whatever it takes.”

A small smile fills Luna’s face. “Of course you will. It’s only because you’ll be there that I’m not on the verge of a breakdown about it, really—Sirius too, although I think he’s mainly still in denial.”

“You have to take care of yourself too,” Hermione insists, eyes narrowed. “If something happens to you, or to Harry’s dads, he’ll lose his mind, and we all know he’s useless at thinking rationally when he’s worried about someone he cares about.”

From across the house, they hear a crash and Harry beginning to call out an apology, Tonks’s laughter audible in the background.

(Luna snorts but nods in agreement.)

/

Harry’s entire body goes rigid at the sound of glass shattering.

It’s a familiar sound from his childhood, the breaking and yelling.

He’s tense, because usually the bruises and breaks are what come next.)

The old habits instinctively reemerge as he moves towards the noise—moving slowly, legs spread so the fabric won’t rub and make a sound, steps close to the heavy furniture so the floor won’t creak.

He can’t help but hesitate outside the kitchen, when he’s found the source of the commotion—

(as soon as he goes in, as soon as he sees the destruction and hurt with his own eyes, the perfect family he’d thought he found would crumble.)

(he’d always known better than to believe it, but—somewhere along the way he’d grown to love his dads enough to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.)

_(he should’ve known better_.)

Taking a deep breath, he carefully edges around the corner, the fabric of the invisibility cloak a familiar comfort against his skin as he feels his life falling to pieces.

Before he can even take in the scene, though, both parents swivel towards him, nostrils flaring.

(A werewolf and a dog animagus—he should’ve known better than to attempt to sneak up on them.)

Remus straightens up instantly, expression worried and eyes alert and the cortisol he can smell. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

Harry can’t bring himself to say it—can’t tear his eyes away from the fragments of glass and ceramic strewn about the floor.

(Too terrified to look up and see the bruises and bleeding they must’ve caused one of his dads on the way down.)

Sirius follows his gaze, analyzes the tight set of his shoulders, the way he’s biting the insides of his cheeks the way he once had to hold in the screams. “Oh, pup—no. That’s not what this is.”

He takes a step closer to his son, gently reaching out a hand—turning his face away in anguish when Harry instinctively flinches at the movement.

“Harry,” his voice breaks, fingers trembling as he grips the fabric of his own shirt. “You’re safe. I promise, I wasn’t—it wasn’t that. Your dad and I are just…”

“We _were_ arguing,” Remus says gently, moving to slide an arm around Sirius’s waist—his husband leans on him like he hasn’t in years, staggered as he is at the thought that he’s sent Harry back into that mindset. “But not like what you’re thinking at all, Harry. Sirius got a little…overexcited, shall we say—because he’s worried I’m not taking my safety seriously.”

From afar, he hears a muffled breath, and he sighs, using his free hand to brush back his hair. “You can come out, Hermione, Sofia.”

The other two slink into the kitchen, looking equally as rattled as Harry; Sofia’s hackles are raised, one arm tightly gripping Hermione’s leg, like the older girl is her personal protector from the entire world.

She’s at war with herself, clearly, wolf instincts compelling her to trust her alpha—

(But human instincts are just as strong, and it’s ingrained in every woman from birth that only among her own can she truly be safe when the swinging starts.)

“Guess this was bound to happen eventually,” Sirius mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “So many people with fucked up childhoods under one roof. It’s a miracle we haven’t triggered each other sooner.”

They’re all silent, and then Sof whispers, _“Sickle in the swear jar.”_

(And Sirius thinks—perhaps there’s hope.)

“Why don’t we all sit down for tea, and I’ll explain,” Remus soothes, hand moving to rub Sirius’s back without a second thought.

All three kids acquiesce soundlessly.

The room is still tense, but—the longer they go without anyone yelling or aiming for one another, the more all of their children appear to relax.

“As I was saying,” Remus continues, voice gentle as he pours each of them a cup of tea, “Sirius and I _were_ arguing. I intend to return to Hogwarts for the coming year, because I believe I’m needed there.”

“And _I _believe he’s not taking his safety seriously because he’s a self-depracating dumbass,” Sirius growls, before clearing his throat. “I wasn’t—I was yelling, but only because I’m terrified he won’t make it home if he goes. I started breaking things because—” he forces himself to take a deep breath. “I just—needed to feel like something was in my control. And—nothing I own means anything without him beside me.”

“He was being dramatic, of course.” Remus purses his lip, but his eyes are still fond, hand still tightly intertwined with his husband’s own. “But he’d never hurt me. Or even raise his voice _at_ me—his yelling was more directed at Voldemort, and the world, and the injustice of the first home we’ve ever known becoming perhaps the most dangerous for us to be.”

Harry nods slowly, breathing beginning to deepen again. “I believe you. And I—I know, and I don’t think that you would—it’s just—”

“I know,” Sirius promises in a whisper, eyes filled with such sorrowful understanding because—he _does_, merlin, does he know.

(The first time he walked in on Dorea biting Charlus’s head off for letting James and Sirius do something they shouldn’t, when he’d had a full blown panic attack, expecting the worst—)

(James had held him, and promised he was safe, and his parents had done the same—for years, proved it until Sirius believed it.)

(He does the same for his and Prongs’s son, now.)

“You’re safe,” he swears to Harry, eyes wide and welling with unshed tears. “You are safe, and you are loved, and so long as you’re with us you will never not be. I promise, pup, I will die before I ever allow you to go through anything like that ever again.” He turns his gaze to the girls, just as earnestly. “You both, too. You’re ours—pack. We won’t let anyone hurt you again. Including ourselves.”

He reaches for Harry’s hand, desperately holding on when his son takes it; Remus places his own atop both of theirs.

(It hurts, and it’s raw, and it’s necessary, because that’s the only way healing comes, isn’t it?)

/

Draco is—all she can think about.

There is so much on her plate, and she’s constantly doing research and packing and preparing for their hunt for the remaining horcruxes; she’d trying to devote herself to it, really and truly doing everything in her power to distract herself.

(And yet nothing can stop the constant undercurrent of worry, the fear of what he’s going through at any given moment.)

(How many times has he been crucio’d? Is he even _alive_?)

(But he has to be—she’d know if he weren’t, wouldn't she? What’s the fucking point of their soulmate bond if not?)

He hasn’t been able to send a single message the entire month they’ve been away, and she just knows he’s going through hell.

(Knows it’s only going to get worse from here—that as dark and twisty as her headspace is right now, this is the reprieve before her own journey amidst the darkness of it all.)

(That as much as it hurts to spend every moment wondering why she’s alive, despairing at the state of the world, wishing her own existence would cease—things are about to get _hard_, unlike anything she, Harry, and Ron have ever faced before.)

Pansy, too, has been completely AWOL and unable to communicate, in the throes of it all.

(Hermione can’t stop herself from imagining the worst, after what her friend had gone through the summer before—can’t stop the violent illness she feels at wondering what is happening to her friend, trapped alongside her soul mate in the den of monsters.

At the beginning of July, she starts getting anxious, and nervous, and nauseous at the thought of it all; any time left to her own thoughts she becomes plagued with darkness or just sleeps and sleeps to pass the time, so she seeks out anything and everything to keep herself busy—anything that distracts her from imagining it all.

So she finds herself helping Fleur with wedding preparations, eventually being reluctantly wrestled into a bridesmaid dress alongside Ginny and Gabrielle, while Tonks laughs and provides commentary.

She spends hours with Bill and Charlie, discussing the ethics of cursebreaking and the horrible ways the law treats dragons, hearing both Weasleys’ tales about the different wizarding communities around the world—the different ways wizards and muggles interact internationally.

(Countries they’ve lived and worked, where muggle and magic coexist side by side, no statue of secrecy—just peacefully living their own lives, without animosity and centuries of hate and harm.)

Sofia chases after her and Harry constantly, of course, desperate to spend as much time with them as she can before they leave.

(And maybe they shouldn’t have told their seven year old sister that they’d be leaving when it’s sensitive information that could jeopardize their lives, but—she’s been abandoned before.)

(She needs to know that’s not what this is—that they love her, unconditionally. That that’s why they’re doing this.)

(Some things are more important than duty.)

Perhaps the brightest spot in the otherwise rough days is the joke shop, where she finds herself far more often than she’d ever expected—but then the twins are two of her best friends in this world, and their storefront is one of the few truly unaffected spaces as the world around them turns to shit.

Half the time she doesn’t involve herself in the bustle or conversation, just hides up on a balcony or in the back room where most of the inventing happens, altering formulas and jotting suggestions for the various projects they’ve halfway started.

Something about the chaos of it all is soothing, and the twins have always understood her in a way unlike anyone else.

/

It’s obvious, as soon as Ginny tells her Cedric had mailed her an invite too—so clear what this luncheon is for.

And it’s—the most relieving thing in the world, honestly, when she walks in to see the host himself, and Neville, and George, Ginny at her side. They all lock weary eyes, and just—collapse into their seats.

(A kind of exhaustion and fear and loneliness the others around them don’t understand.)

None of them say it aloud, but Ginny curls into Neville’s side on the couch, and Hermione finds a seat on the floor between Cedric and George, and they all sit and stare hopelessly at each other for a moment.

“It’s all I can ever think about,” George whispers, knuckles white as his fists clench hard enough to hurt. “I know Daph doesn’t have it as bad as—but I just—” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’m try to put on an optimistic show, but I don’t know how the hell we’ll all get through this.”

Cedric begins pouring out a bottle of firewhiskey, expression grim. “Me too. Theo is also not at the center of it all, but—this, the not knowing, it kills.”

“I find myself,” Hermione whispers, eyes far away, “Wishing for bruises and cuts to pop up on my skin, because even though they’d mean he’s in pain, at least I would know he’s alive. And I hate myself for it. But I can’t help how desperately I hope for the confirmation.”

And Neville has never been told who her soul mate is specifically, but—being on the outskirts has always made him perceptive.

(He knows, she’s sure.)

His expression contorts with grief. “It’s horrible, but—I understand. It’s hard, knowing what they’ve been through before, what went on last summer—knowing it must be worse, now.”

He turns to Hermione with a frown. “And for you, I can’t imagine the toll the silence takes—having to pretend like it isn’t killing you every day. Not being able to truly acknowledge your pain because none of them can know.”

(She’s never put it into words like that before, but—yes, that _exactly_.)

“It’s excruciating,” she confirms.

After a beat of silence, Ginny clears her throat. “I’m taking shots before I get emo—anyone else?”

“Please,” Hermione and George both respond immediately, hands shaky as they reach to accept the glasses.

(They need it, now more than ever—the dull senses that make the pain just the slightest bit more bearable, make the anxiety just barely keep from eating them alive.)

They talk about other things, too, and play a drinking game, and just—anything and everything.

(It’s _nice, _being with people who understand this complicated burden she bears.)

“It fucks with my head,” Ginny says to Hermione and Neville, when they’re several drinks deep, and they’re all lounging across the living room, while she lays on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. “Because I _know_ him. Not Blaise, but—Voldemort. I—I know him better than I’ve ever known _anyone_.”

She swallows heavily, fists clenched. “He spent a year inside my _head_—I know what he thinks about everything, how his mind works, how he makes plans, how he sees the world. And I feel so—exposed, and used, knowing that I was nothing but an afterthought. That he’s the first person outside my family that ever really knew me, that I was so willing to open up and it was all a means to an end for him. That even now the person ruining Blaise’s life—all of their lives—is the same one who fucked me up and tried to kill me when I was eleven. Imagining Voldemort, the horrible villain from all the stories, as the same person as T-Tom, the boy who invaded my mind and took over my body, whose name still makes me cringe…”

A shudder runs through her at the thought. “I want him gone. I know we all do, but—on a personal level, I want him fucking _gone_.”

(It’s been five years, but the wound still feels fresh—the violation, the rawness of it all, is something Hermione understands so deeply it makes her nauseous.)

“We have a plan,” Hermione promises, and all of their eyes lock on her. “I can’t give details. But we have a plan, and we know how to stop him. I promise. I don’t know how long it will take, but we’re _going_ to get rid of the bastard.”

_(Or die trying_ goes unspoken.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from summer depression by girl in red
> 
> The world is a hard, hard place, right now. I am so, so sorry to everyone feeling it—I hope you have safety and love and support all around you, but if you don’t, know that I am behind you and rooting for you every day. We’ll make it through this chaos, somehow.
> 
> If you’ve yet to and are an American citizen, please, please, I beg you to vote. It’s so important and I can’t bear the thought of what will happen if we don’t—civil rights are on the line.
> 
> Next update to come very, very soon, I swear!!
> 
> All my love.


	39. another turning point

They do a celebration with the Weasleys and Neville and Hannah a few days before Harry’s actual birthday; on the day of, it’s a smaller affair—much more his style, just Andy, Ted, Tonks, Percy, Teddy, and of course his dads and his sisters and his soul mate.

(He loves Molly and everyone so much for kicking up a fuss about him, but then he’s never been much for being the center of attention; and now more than ever, any such positive atmospheres feel like a forced façade.)

(It’s nice, just being at home with the people he loves the most—the people who know he’s not trying to bring down the mood, but that he genuinely can’t bring himself to pretend like anything else matters when matters are so grave.)

Hermione lets out her first laugh since April when Teddy smashes his own face in the frosting of a slice of cake, breathing just a bit easier when it draws a smile from Harry, too.

Remus and Sirius look on with wistful expressions—so proud, that their boy has made it to adulthood.

(So terrified, for what this next year will bring. So sorrowful, that James and Lily aren’t here to see it.)

They hadn’t fought any further about Remus returning to Hogwarts; Sirius doesn’t like it, but he wouldn’t love Remus if he weren’t the kind of wizard who would put himself in such a volatile position knowingly in order to defend the most innocent of them all, to stand between children and darkness.

(At the end of the day, he knows it’s not his decision.)

Andy tells stories of her own memories from Harry’s infancy, the times James had come over to hang out with his and Sirius’s favorite aunt, the few times a five year old Tonks had accidentally almost dropped him were it not for a well-aimed cushioning charm.

Luna curls into his side, always one for physical contact, and desperate to get as much in as possible now, before she’s again left alone when they go off on their Horcrux hunt.

“Is there anything else you want to do to celebrate, pup?” Sirius asks, smiling down at his son with such love in his eyes and joy in his smile that the age and wear of thirteen years in Azkaban nearly disappears.

“I think—” Harry blows a deep breath through his lips as he pushes back from the table. “Let’s destroy the horcruxes.”

Hermione’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry, _what?”_

“I mean it.” Her brother’s eyes are beseeching, willing her to understand. “If we can’t find any, or if something goes wrong…I need to know that at least the ones we’ve found have been taken care of. Until we get rid of them, nothing we’ve done so far makes any _difference_.”

“Such a disaster bi, that one,” Tonks mutters with a snort. “Gets it from his father.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “I resent that.”

“Truth hurts, Moony my love,” Sirius comments cheerfully. “But it’s one of your most endearing qualities.”

It’s the best day in the worst time—Hermione finds herself exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion, the love and fear and sorrow swirling together and consuming her.

Harry notices er fatigue, spots the tilt of her eyebrows that means she’s trying not to feel; he cocks his head at her with worry. Gives her the look—the one that means if she needs out they’ll disappear, right now. “Unless you want to wait—”

“No, we should do it,” Hermione tells him, forcing a smile onto her face. “You’re right, it’ll feel better once we know there’s _something_ that’s better than it was. And it’s a good idea to do it now, while we have support, rather than not knowing what we’re up against alone. Especially given that the diary already, you know, actively tried to kill you and Ginny.”

His face scrunches up with distaste. “Yeah, that was not awesome. Would be nice to make it a little bit longer without any murder attempts.”

They make their way into Ted’s office, which is really more of an eclectic work room he uses to attempt to fuse magic and muggle.

Everyone braces themselves as Hermione pulls the basilisk fangs out of her beaded bag. “Be very careful, please,” she reminds them nervously.

“Can you imagine, if I survived this far and then got taken out by a fang not even still in the basilisk,” Harry mutters.

Sirius sends a glare his way. “I would learn necromancy so I could bring you back and kill you myself.”

“So would Voldemort,” Harry comments helpfully.

Remus turns to Hermione, ever exasperated with the two of them. “And I thought it would be the lycanthropy to make me age prematurely.”

He moves to lay out the locket and diadem, and they all stare with trepidation.

“How do you reckon we open it?” Harry wonders aloud.

Remus and Hermione share an ever-tired glance.

Hermione moves to braid her hair back as she speaks. “Well, given that it’s the heir of _Slytherin’s_ locket with a snake shaped like an s for _Slytherin, _who was the most famous parselmouth of all time, and made into a horcrux by someone who thought himself the only parslemouth alive and more special than anyone else because of his connection to _Slytherin_, whose house’s emblem is a snake, and made the entrance to his own secret private lair guarded by a parslemouth-requiring spell, I’m personally going to go ahead and assume you’ll use parslemouth.”

Harry makes a face. “You may have a point.” He makes toward it before swivelling to look backward. “You should do the locket, Dad,” he says quietly, biting his lip as he looks up at Sirius. “In Regulus’s honor. Poetic justice, or whatever.”

Sirius nods slowly, reaching to tightly grip one of the fangs.

Harry moves forward, clearing his throat before hesitantly hissing in the familiar tongue. _“Open.”_

The locket swings open, without a creak despite its age, and a wispy form rises above it to face them as Harry steps back.

_“You failed me_,” a ghostly apparition accuses.

It’s someone Hermione’s never seen before, but she doesn’t have to have to know who it is.

(The dark waves, high cheekbones, the familiar gray of his eyes that’s somehow a dominant trait in the Black line—)

“Reg,” Sirius whispers, gutted. “Reggie, I’m so sorry.”

_“No amount of apologizing makes up for letting me die,” _Regulus bites out. _“You’re a failure as a brother, as a son, as a best friend—as a father. Everyone in your life would be better off without you. You should just give up now, before you can fail anyone else.”_

A pained expression rocks across his brother’s face, but his grip on the fang remains steady. “I’m doing this for you. So He can’t do what he did to you to anyone else.” He steels his jaw. “And the real Reg knows that, wherever he is in whatever life comes after this one.”

Swallowing heavily, he takes a step forward and stabs the fang down into the locket with a practiced aim.

The horcrux-Regulus screams, so realistically that Sirius falls to his knees. Remus moves to his side, drawing his arms around him tight, letting him fall apart in the embrace.

A moment later, Sirius pulls himself and then his husband to their feet, unashamedly turning back to the rest of them despite the swollen look of his eyes. “Let’s get the other one done too, then.”

“Draco found it…it should be you, Mia.”

Hermione sighs but agrees. She traces a hand along the diadem gently. “It’s so sad, the way the world works—such beautiful things destroyed for corrupt men to feel powerful. This is one of the most important artifacts in British magical history, something so incredible that could turn the tide in a war—and it’s been corrupted and made useless because one man needed to feel like mortality itself is under his control.”

She bites her lip, frustration and sorrow making her _angry_, and without giving the horcrux a chance to fight back, just—slams the basilisk fang downward with all her strength, forcing it through the delicate metal until a viscous black substance begins to pour out of it.

The diadem snaps, where she’d stabbed it, the vitality and luster and beauty draining away, and all that’s left is some woven once-wondrous silver scraps.

And she lets herself half-fall onto the armchair, feeling empty despite the lack of fight; Harry and Sirius are at her side instantly, and they all just let themselves feel it, for a bit—the toll this time is already taking on their minds, their bodies.

(Their souls.)

Sofia peeks her head around the door frame, wide eyes staring at where they’re all sprawled around the room, drained and disheveled. “What did you _do_?”

“We had to get rid of some dark objects, but everything is fine,” Remus promises her, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Did you need something, sweetheart?”

The girl nods self-importantly. “There’s an owl! For Percy. It won’t go away.”

Percy sighs, bags beneath his eyes heavy. “Was it a dark blue envelope?”

“Yep!”

“Work, then.” He squeezes Tonks’s hand as he gets to his feet. “I’ll go deal with it. Hopefully it won’t take me too long.”

He disappears up the stairs, leaving them all to wonder what it could be—what new horrors the next day might bring.

They find a safe place for all of the now useless horcrux husks, feeling both relief and trepidation.

(Two more, though—just two more. They’re _close_, it feels like they might actually make it, now.)

“Can ‘ou believe I made it to theventeen?” Harry asks through a mouthful of his second helping of cake, looking genuinely baffled by the prospect. “I really never thought I’d last this long, what with everyone and everything trying to kill me. My own brain not wanting to be here, sometimes.”

Hermione swallows heavily, throat thick with emotion. “I’m so fucking proud of you. It’s incredibly that you have, and I’m—so grateful to have you. I couldn’t do it without you.”

Harry leans his head onto her shoulder, and she stacks her own atop his. “Back at you. I’m really glad we’re both still here.”

And neither of them ever thought it would be true, but he really is—and so is she.

“I’m excited for our adventure,” she says. “Not really, obviously, but—you know.” They’re quiet for a beat. “I already have everything packed, just in case, so that we’re ready whenever we need to leave. And everything ready in case of emergency.”

“I would have literally been murdered so long ago without you,” Harry acknowledges, eyebrows raised with how impressed he is. “Is that why I couldn’t find the cloak this morning?”

“Yes—why were you looking for the cloak this morning?”

He shrugs with a guilty smile. “No reason in particular.”

“You’re a dirty rotten liar, Harry Potter.” Bumping his shoulder with her own, Hermione reaches to pour another cup of tea. “Fine, then, I’ll get it out of you eventually.

They’re still discussing the impending year when Percy finds them moments later, looking harried.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asks warily. “You only get that look when the world goes to shit. Or Tonks offers to cook dinner.”

“I don’t know about to shit,” Percy frowns, “but the minister is demanding to speak to you both. I tried to put it off, but he’s insisting it happen today now that you’re both of age—Ron has to be there, too.”

“Scrimgeour? What does he want with us?” Harry wonders aloud.

“Dumbledore’s left you three things in his will.”

“Course we can’t escape him even now,” Hermione mutters, frustration leaking into her voice.

Harry’s face scrunches up with confusion. “Why would he leave us things?”

“Because he was a controlling narcissist who needed everyone to know he was the one masterminding everything,” she glowers. Letting out a deep breath, she looks up at the ceiling. “I mean, they’re probably necessary for defeating Voldemort, whatever they are. But he could’ve given them to us when he was still alive if he weren’t such a megalomaniac.”

Harry purses his lips thoughtfully. “You’re not wrong. Guess we might as well get the free stuff now, though.”

She reluctantly agrees, and they find themselves at the Burrow not long after, Sirius refusing to allow any outsiders into their home who could potentially compromise their security and put any of their family at risk.

Ron looks very confused to have been included, which pisses Hermione off all over again—that this boy who deserves all of the love and acknowledgement in the world received so little attention from the headmaster who’d been integral in their lives for years that he didn’t even believe the man knew he existed.

And the gifts don’t make sense or come with any explanation, of course, because that would simply be too easy for someone like Albus Dumbledore.

She gets a children’s’ book of fairytales, which—she loves books, of course, but it’s also an odd bequest. They’re stories she knows, not that Dumbledore would have any idea about that, but the first thing she’d done upon learning she was a witch was consume everything about magical culture and history and society.

(As an eleven year old, the fairytales seemed critical to know.)

And even if she hadn’t read them then, Draco adores them, and she’s caught him immersing himself in Beedle the Bard more than once over the years, when things get rough and he needs the familiar comfort.

So she’s understandably confused by the present.

Perhaps even more baffling are Ron’s deluminator (why on earth was that so important as to be Dumbledore’s last request?) and the sword of Gryffindor, which Dumbledore must’ve _known_ protocol would prevent them from receiving.

It only takes her a moment to put it together, being that they’ve only just destroyed the horcruxes hours before—the sword must’ve become imbibed with venom during second year, and Dumbeldore was attempting to provide them with a means of destroying the dark objects.

But there wasn’t a chance in the world that the ministry would allow a teenager, even one now of age, to have such a precious historic artifact—even Dumbledore wasn’t so blissfully wishful as to think such a thing. So there must be a backup plan in place, or something—some reason why he even bothered to write it into the will to begin with.

(Even then, she finds herself annoyed at his memory—_this_ is all the most powerful wizard in the world could leave them to fight against the evil at the door? How did he expect them to stand a wisp of a chance?)

/

The chaos doesn’t stop, of course, what with the wedding the next day.

Everything feels electric from the moment they wake up; Hermione’s in it, so of course she has to be there early, Harry looking far too amused about it for her liking.

Gabrielle is the maid of honor, but too excited and jittery herself to do much in the way of comfort, so Ginny and Hermione take turns running around and bringing snacks and mimosas in equal measure to Fleur, her mother, and Molly, all of whom are both thrilled and entirely overwhelmed.

Even magically, things like makeup and hair take time, so they’ve been at it for hours by the time the guys show up. Ginny shoos her brothers away and Hermione glares at Cedric, laughing and cracking jokes about her still not being a morning person.

That is, she glares until Viktor appears behind him, at which point she runs to hug him excitedly. “You’re here!”

“I’m just saying, you never greet me like that,” Cedric mutters teasingly.

Hermione levels him with a look. “Go away for two years and maybe I will.” She returns her attention to Viktor, beaming. “How are you? Did your family end up coming?”

“Yes—Cho is vatching them now, but they’re very excited to meet you. I apologize for vatever they inevitably say to embarrass me.”

“I can’t wait to meet them. _Finally_.” She hugs him and Cedric both before returning the where the other members of the bridal party are finishing up getting ready.

While the others chatter away, she finds herself sitting with Molly, which—their relationship has always been complicated.

“I’m so happy for them—and Fleur is lovely, of course. All of my children’s loved ones are incredible, and we’re so lucky to have them join the family. But—” her lip quivers. “I hate that they’re starting out this way, in the middle of chaos and bloodshed, darkness all around them.”

She swallows heavily as she meets Hermione’s gaze. “Arthur and I got married at the beginning of a war, too. And I wouldn’t change a thing about it, but—it was _hard_, and tainted, and…we always wanted more for our kids. That’s why we fight, isn’t it—so they don’t have to? So they can grow up in a world better than the one we’ve known?” She wipes at the tears beginning to form at her eyes. “We’ve just—we’ve been fighting for so long, and it didn’t do any good. And now our children are soldiers too, and it’s my firstborn’s wedding day and I can’t help but worry that one of them might be widowed before their first anniversary.”

Hermione gently reaches to hug the older woman, who quietly sobs on her shoulder.

After a moment, Molly sits up again, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, dear. This is the last thing you need to hear. I just get emotional.”

“It’s okay,” Hermione assures her with a small smile. “I understand. I’ve been thinking a lot of the same. Especially with Harry’s birthday, yesterday; his parents gave _everything_ to keep him safe, and defeat the darkness, and it bought him time, but—” she chokes, unable to finish.

“But,” Molly agrees in a whisper.

They calm down, eventually, discussion moving to lighter topics, and it—it’s easier than any conversation with her friends’ mother has ever been, some sort of mutual understanding and grief now that they’ve cried together over things out of their control.

Eventually, Percy shows up with both Sofia and Teddy in hand. “Your flower girl and ring bearer are here, Fleur,” he calls.

“Tons didn’t want to come and help you wrangle them?” Ginny asks with an amused grin.

Percy snorts. “Oh, no, she offered. But then I’d be chasing after three gremlins instead of two, so I told her to just floo with Remus and Sirius when it’s time.”

“Mi! Mi!” Teddy reaches desperately, face quivering the way it does when he’s about to wail, and Hermione carefully scoops him out of his father’s arms, holding him tight to her chest.

“Hi, you,” she chirps, heart warming at the way his whole face lights up when he looks at her “Are you being good for your dad? Excited to be in the wedding and cheer on Uncle Bill?”

He babbles nonsensically, earning laughter from the adults all around him.

Hermione turns to Sofia, gently stroking a lock of her sister’s hair. “What about you, Sof? You excited?”

Sofia gives a serious nod. “I might just dump the entire bucket of flowers on Harry and Ron’s heads.”

“I don’t know how Fleur would feel about—”

“She gave me permission.” Sofia grins wickedly. “It was Bill’s idea.”

/

The ceremony is—the most beautiful thing imaginable, of course.

It’s been hard for Hermione to look forward to it, with everything going on in the world; hard to even feel like there’s any light in sight.

But for the first time in so, so long she can feel _hope_, today—can feel happiness, and joy, and gratitude for the amazing people in her life.

Fleur is always perfect, and the way she glows the moment her eyes meet Bill’s is—effervescent.

Her groom is likewise gorgeous; he starts to tear up at the sight of her, and as soon as she meets him at the altar whispers something in her ear that earns a smirk that lets everyone know exactly what’s on the couple’s minds.

“Everyone here knows he just told her how much he can’t wait to fuck her and my mother is definitely dying right now,” Ginny says through her teeth, grinning at the prospect. “How long do you think she’ll wait to chastise him?”

“If she waits long enough, she’ll catch my maman giving zem ‘oneymoon advice,” Gabrielle chimes in.

No one else can hear them, of course, but they quiet all the same; Hermione locks eyes with Cedric, on the other side of the minister, and feels less alone at the complicated joy she finds there.

The relief, that there is still good in this world, that they can still have these perfect moments of good people finding the happiness they deserve.

(The despair, wondering if they’ll ever be able to have it themselves.)

It’s wonderful and overwhelming, and when the couple of the hour says I do Hermione finds tears spilling down her face, and even though she’s terrified and worried about what’s to come, somehow in this moment there is only light and love and happiness.

(One of her best friends in the world just got _married_.)

(And no one, not even Voldemort, can take that away.)

The reception is the most fun party she’s ever been to; she has a couple firewhiskeys but is too busy saying hi to people and trying to make sure everyone has everything they need to really get drunk.

Harry takes her for a spin around the dance floor that is just them in circles devolving into hysterics.

(it’s enough they can almost avoid thinking about the blondes who should be at their sides.)

“It’s bizarre to see you as a redhead, for the record,” she tells him as they return to the food table for another round of snacks.

“The hair color is really the part that’s weird to you? Not me having an entirely different face?”

“I mean that too.” She rolls her eyes at him, making a face when he says it with food in his mouth. “Heathen.”

“You love me.” It’s teasing, but also—it’s a joke he’d be too insecure to make with anyone else.

(She’s the first person in the world whose love he was sure of.)

“I do. More than my own life.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at her. “You’re suicidal, that’s really not a lot—”

“Harry James! Just take the compliment, you prat.”

“I love you too, Mia.” He scoops a dollop of frosting onto her nose, earning a shriek and some on his forehead in return.

A throat clears behind them, and they both straighten up, hastily wiping the mess off of their faces; they meet Viktor’s gaze, where he looks amused, three small figures at his side.

“Oh! Viktor, are these your siblings?”

He nods with a smile, drawing them all forward. “This is Lena, Petya, and Katya. You three, this is Hermione.”

“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you all, I’ve been looking forward to it for years.” She beams when they blush and pepper her with questions and comments.

“Vitya says you’re the smartest vitch there’s ever been! And you taught him how to do a shark metamorphagus charm! Can you teach me cool spells too?

“Are you really best friends with Harry Potter?” Katya pipes up, eyes wide.

Hermione holds in a snicker at the way Harry chokes beside her. “I am.”

“Is he the bravest? And the coolest? Vitya says he’s very dramatic.”

“Ekaterina—"

Harry forgets himself, opening his mouth to respond with outrage, and Hermione steps on his foot to shut him up. “He is very brave, yes—definitely not the coolest, though.” She shakes her head. “He is _extremely _dramatic and ridiculous; but he has a good heart, and that’s what matters most.”

“That’s what Papa says too,” Lena nods with agreement.

“Listen, I’ve met Harry too,” Harry says, dropping his voice low to sound more like Barney than himself. “And I think—”

“Oh, hush, Barney, I think I know Harry better than you do,” Hermione tells him with a look, angling her head at where Viktor is watching him suspiciously.

(She loves and trusts Viktor, but they can’t risk any additional people knowing Harry’s here—it’s not safe. She’ll stupefy him, if she needs to.)

A few people mention Luna’s supposed murder, all extending sorrow and condolences, and Hermione struggles to handle it—the exact emotions necessary to convey grief, while trying to support Harry and keep him from descending into a breakdown, as he conceals his own complicated emotions regarding the subject.

(As he impulsively starts to thank everyone who asks Hermione to give him their condolences, only to remember cousin Barney never would’ve met Luna.)

Eventually she finds herself beside Tonks and Andy, the two women she looks up to most.

They all laugh as they watch Sirius twirl a reluctant Remus around the dance floor, his years of pureblood education and soiree attendance making him superbly graceful.

“I love to think of Walburga rolling around in her grave if she knew all of her education and attempts to make him the perfect pureblood heir are now being used on his half-blood werewolf husband,” Andy smiles vindictively. “Racist bitch. Seeing them happy like this…merlin, does it remind me how worth it all of it is.”

They’re quiet, for a moment, and Hermione unconsciously rubs at her wrist, the way she always has when seeking comfort—knowing Romeo’s on the other end often enough to make the world feel more steady.

Almost as though she’s summoned him, ink begins blossoming across her forearm.

_They’re coming. You have to run._

Her blood runs cold, entire body immediately going stiff.

(The last time he’d given a similar warning was the World Cup—just before Death Eaters had shown up and tortured muggles and very nearly attempted to murder her and Harry both.)

_Don’t say his name—there’s a taboo. They’ll find you.  
You have to run. I love you._

She swallows the scream building in her throat as she hastily gets to her feet.

Tonks takes a glance at her expression and is instantly on guard. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re coming,” Hermione whispers, holding out her shaking wrist.

The older woman doesn’t question it—is instantly standing, casting a sonorous.

“Sorry for the interruption, everyone, but I’ve had an official notice from the Ministry that there’s a venomous tentacula toxin nearby and we all need to evacuate immediately.” Her tone is calm, but demands attention—carefully intended to make sure they take her seriously without causing a panic.

The other Order members in attendance spot the look in her eyes, though—understand the unspoken urgency, begin ushering guests to the apparition point and through the floo.

They’re good at this—speed and efficiency without specifying _exactly _how much danger everyone is in, reassuring people even as they force them out the door.

Perhaps most impressive of everyone there are Fleur and Bill, who go from beaming newlyweds to dead serious soldiers in a split second; they don’t pause to grieve their special day, or get upset about the circumstances—instead, they’re immediately commanding everyone to depart and assisting those in need of a hand to a portkey.

Five minutes later, a patronus from Kingsley shows up, announcing the real reason behind the abrupt end to the wedding—and all hell breaks loose among the third of the guests still present, all of whom are then gone in a matter of moments.

“You three ‘ave to go,” Fleur insists when she spots Harry, Hermione, and Ron still around, all attempting to help with the rapid breakdown of the event. “Now.”

“Fleur’s right,” Fred grimaces, wand at the ready. “It’s not safe for you here—you have to be gone before they get here.”

Harry gapes desperately. “We can’t just—they’re coming, you’re all in danger, how can you expect us to—”

“Harry,” Ron says gently, “They’re in more danger if you stay. Don’t take this the wrong way, mate, but your presence is pretty much the greatest death sentence of all right now.”

His friend winces, but nods with understanding. “Okay, but—”

“I’m really sorry about this, Harry,” Hermione says as she moves to grip both his and Ron’s arms.

Confusion alights his face, and Ron gives a grim look of knowing—

And then she’s turning and they’re gone.

/

They crash land in the Forest of Dean.

It’s a complicated feeling, the way this was the first place her mind came up with.

It’s muggle, so the odds of Death Eaters finding them are slim, which is what matters most.

(But the last time she was here was with her family, mother, father, uncle and all—not good memories.)

(Her nightmares will be at their worst tonight, she already knows.)

Harry opens and closes his mouth several times, staring around them. “I—you—what the—” he takes a deep breath “Dad is going to murder you.”

Ron grimaces. “Better him than the Death Eaters.”

“Any contact we have with them right now puts them in danger,” Hermione whispers apologetically, before beginning to mutter security spells.

Ron sighs, scratching at the back of his head. “So…what, exactly, is our plan here?”

Hermione points to the bag without stopping her incantations; Harry picks it up and begins to dig through it before giving up and raising his wand. “Accio tent.”

It zooms out of the small purse, somehow, at which point he realizes he doesn’t know how to assemble it and shoots a pleading look at Hermione.

She ignores him, for a moment, continuing to cast the protective enchantments without hesitation, despite the exhaustion dragging at her eyelids.

(The adrenaline is too strong for the tiredness to win out.)

Eventually, she finishes, turning to her brother with an unimpressed look. “You are really the most dependent human being on the planet. What are you going to do if I die and you and Ron have to fend for yourselves?”

Harry scowls, and Ron’s face grows pale. “Don’t talk like that. I won’t—you can’t—”

“I’m being serious, Harry,” she says, voice growing hysterical as she speaks. “We’re in a war—we are actively on the run, now. I’m a muggleborn, and a known target—we’ve discussed before our odds of survival aren’t good. You have to be able to—to manage, if something happens to me, you can’t just—don’t let my death be in vain.”

He shakes his head desperately. “No. I know it’s a possibility, but—I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Both of you. I won’t let Vol—”

Hermione’s eyes widen, and she surges forward to clamp a hand over his mouth. “Don’t!”

Ron narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong? You put up the spells so they can’t hear us, why are you so worried?”

“There’s a taboo,” she rasps, removing her hand from Harry’s mouth as she takes a deep breath to steady herself. “They’ve attached a trace to his name, Draco said—we can’t say it or it’ll bypass all of our security enchantments.”

Ink begins to appear along the back of Harry’s hand, overtop of the Umbridge induced scar. _Are you okay? Don’t give me details, just in case, but—just let me know that you’re safe._

A pause, and then beneath Luna writes _Your dads asked me to tell you you’re grounded, by the way—and to remind you about the mirrors. They’re a safe means of communication._

“What—” Ron’s jaw drops as he stares at the handwriting he’d seen on his best friend plenty of times over the years. “How—but she’s dead! She’s been gone almost a year,” he whispers, eyes full of confusion and sadness.

“Ron, I—I’m so sorry,” Harry winces. “We couldn’t tell anyone. But she—she survived the attack. Dumbledore thought it was best to fake her death to keep her safe, because he’d only come after her more if he knew. I’m so sorry, please—please don’t be mad.”

Ron reaches to squeeze his best friend’s shoulder. “I—Harry, how could I be mad? Our friend--your _soulmate_ is alive, that’s the best thing I’ve heard in…fucking _months_. Merlin. Is her dad—”

“No,” Hermione confirms quietly, as she nonverbally casts the incantation to set up the tent. “That one was real.”

“Damn. So she’s just been alone, and having to bear it all…bloody hell.” He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Poor Luna. I’m so fucking glad she’s alive, though.”

Harry nods grimly. “Me too.”

They file into the tent, nearly collapsing onto the worn but familiar couches from the World Cup—just three years before, and yet it feels like a lifetime ago.

Harry quickly scribbles a reply to Luna; Hermione writes her own x on her wrist, knowing that’s all she can risk.

“Lu says she’ll make sure Sirius gets word to your family that we’re all right,” Harry promises Ron, who dips his head in thanks.

They sit in silence, for a moment, taking in the day’s events, too overwhelmed to fully comprehend it all.

“This taboo…they’re giving up their ability to pretend. It’s really begun, then,” Ron says softly, clenching his jaw. “They’re done hiding in the shadows.”

“It’s almost—relieving, as terrible as it is?” Harry ponders aloud. “The waiting, the terror—it’s been almost worse. I hate that it’s happening, but—I’m glad to not feel insane, and get on with it. Here goes nothing, I guess.”

Hermione hums, like she has something to add—

But the stress and business and forgetting to eat all day before the wedding add up on top of the intense and extensive magic she’s just cast, and all of it has been building up all day, and it finally all crashes down,

And she slumps over on the couch, collapsing against the soft cushions as the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from good riddance by green day
> 
> happy hell day, friends. take care of yourselves.
> 
> I am quasi-participating in nano so updates should continue coming quickly! All I can say is next chapter is going to be ~spicy~ I’ve been waiting to write this arc for SO. LONG.
> 
> all my love


	40. flower bud in concrete

The first few weeks are—completely useless.

They’re still full of anxious hope, and a misplaced faith that it will be easy and they’ll be able to be successful so long as they devote themselves to it.

Hermione feels like a complete idiot for not packing any sort of food provisions, because realistically that should’ve been her foremost concern, but she was so worried they’d forget necessary magical objects or information for the search itself she forgot about preparing for the human side of things.

(Survival. Funny, how that’s always what it comes down to.)

And they’re all too hesitant to go into town, to risk anyone seeing them at all, so they’re scrounging and attempting to hunt, and it’s all going…well, rather badly.

They have more than one close call with mushrooms and berries that turn out to be poisonous; and beyond that, on more than one occasion they all feel ill after eating.

Several meals end with them all vomiting, but it’s when Ron finds Hermione being violently sick outside the tent after one such meal, his own face going white with guilt as he blames himself for her state, having been the one to prepare the food.

“You’re doing your best, Ron,” Hermione pants out, wishing she had the energy to hug him. Wishing he understood how critical he is, in these hardest of moments—his effortless love and comfort and calm, subduing her and Harry’s unstable, downward spiraling tendencies. “You’re keeping us alive, it’s not your fault we’re having a few hiccups with the meals.”

“I just—merlin, I hate seeing you like this. I’m so sorry.” He’s clenching his jaw, beating himself up internally.

“Ron.” She stares him down, fixing her hair shakily, though still not feeling one hundred percent. “This is not on you. You’re doing a great job. Harry is self-deprecating enough for all three of us—you can’t get down on yourself too, or we’ll never make any progress.”

Making a face, he moves to help her to her feet. “I suppose. I just…I feel like I’m not doing enough to help. I don’t want to be dead weight.”

“Ronald, you are—_anything_ but dead weight, and I’m not just saying that to spare your feelings. Your presence is every bit as necessary as Harry or I’s; and you have more to lose, so it means a lot to us both that you’re here anyway. We all feel a little useless right now, because—well, we’re not making much progress, so it’s hard not to lose steam, to lose hope.

“But that’s not a reflection of you—that’s because the task before us is a difficult one; almost impossible, really. One more reason why I fucking hate Dumbledore, but that’s besides the point.” She shakes her head at the thought. “You’re doing everything right, Ron, I promise—with how on edge we all are right now, I’m sure someone will snap the second one of us isn’t.”

It’s—interesting, to Hermione, the way their situation is affecting all of them so differently.

For her and Harry, the desolation is par for the course—they don’t love it, but it’s far from surprising.

(It’s hard to lose hope when you never thought to have any in the first place—when life has always taught you to brace for the worst, so things getting bad barely registers.)

On Ron’s end, though, there’s never been the same darkness, and hopelessness, and trauma—which is wonderful, and a reason his presence is so critical for them, because he’s the only one that can look at things through an unbiased, mentally stable lens.

But also…situations like this hit him much harder. He assumes things being bad is his fault, because he’s never experienced this kind of hardship before, so it’s taking a much greater toll.

(He hasn’t built up the mental and emotion callouses that make the bad shit barely sting—the resilience that only comes from using your own spine as a rope to frag yourself up out of hell.)

(Of course it’s weighing on him more heavily—he’s not equipped with the mental resources that make it easy; he’s not equipped with the experiences that assure him he’ll manage to get through this, like he has the darkness that came before.)

“I’ve never gotten around to learning much Russian from Viktor,” Hermione tells Ron softly, searching for the right words to comfort him. “But there’s this one phrase he mentioned once that stuck with me—something they say when life goes to shit. _Perejivyom i eto._”

Ron looks skeptical that this is going to help him, but plays along nonetheless. “Alright, then, go on, explain it to me.”

“It directly translates to _we’ll survive this too_—like, when things have been horrible, and then something new that’s awful happens. And—it’s terrible. This situation, the fact that we don’t know what we’re looking for, and we have no prospects and no hope and no food, and no end in sight, and we might be murdered along the way—”

“I’m hoping there’s a but coming,” Ron interrupts with a murmur.

_“But,”_ Hermione enunciates, locking gazes with him. “We survived the giant chess set and the potions riddle and Quirrell. We survived acromantulas and the chamber of secrets and a horcrux possessing Ginny. We survived the dementors third year, and the attack on the World Cup, and the shitshow that was the Triwizard tournament. We survived a fanatical psychopathic felon posing as our professor for a year and attacking Harry, we survived the summer Vol—You-Know-Who returned and a professor who used illegal medieval torture devices on us for detention and created ministry decrees that violated our civil rights. We survived battle against some of the strongest, most proficient Death Eaters at the ministry. We survived the Death Eaters’ attacks everywhere, and the attack on Luna, and the invasion and subsequent battle in Hogwarts. We survived Death Eaters showing up to Bill and Fleur’s wedding to kill us specifically.”

She smiles—a bittersweet, determined expression. “It’s going to be rough. It’s going to suck, and hurt, and probably fuck us up a little bit. But we’ll survive this, too.”

They make their way back inside, tucked against each other’s side both for comfort and to fight off the chill, and find Harry pouring over the writing on his arm, deep in conversation with Luna.

“Guess what?” he asks.

Despite the happy tone he says it with, Hermione and Ron both tense, expecting the worst.

Hermione’s wand arm is braced as she replies, “What?”

“No, this is good!” He gives them a half-hearted smile. “Tonks and Percy decided to elope—figured they’d waited long enough and said fuck it. They did it yesterday.”

Ron beams. “Fuck yeah. Good on them—they both deserve some happiness, right now. And Teddy, not that he’s old enough to understand what they’re celebrating.”

“What’d they decide to do about names?” Hermione asks, curious.

“Percy’s hyphenating, I think—Tonks didn’t want to give hers up since she’s the only one to carry on the line.”

Ron’s eyebrows rise. “I’m surprised Percy didn’t just change his altogether, with so many of the rest of us—though I guess it’s probably for the best, Mum would lose her mind crying and feeling like he left the family.”

“That’s probably exactly why he didn’t,” Hermione mutters—and then they’re all laughing at nothing, and it’s not actually funny but they’re so desperate for something that’s not darkness that they let the ridiculousness of it consume them.

/

It’s hard to focus when you’re hungry.

This is something Harry’s no stranger to, of course; it’s a familiar feeling that makes the entire thing feel like his childhood.

Still, they’re all constantly on edge, and irritable no matter how much they try not to be.

They spend much of their free time practicing wandless and nonverbal magic—something Hermione insists upon, but the others don’t question.

(If they’re caught, the ability to perform even the most minimal spell without a wand or a word may mean the difference between losing the war and victory.)

(Between life and death for all three of them.)

They discuss whether it’s safe to summon Winky, to potentially retrieve supplies or ferry messages—they decide against it, Hermione and Ron both too paranoid to risk it, with how easy it would be for anyone to place a tracking spell on the beloved elf.

(Even the smallest chance of discovery must be avoided.)

Which, Sirius has spent more than once evening passionately arguing with them through the mirrors—insisting that there’s no reason for him not to be with them, no reason for them not to be staying at Grimmauld Place, at least.

But there are too many traitors in their midst, too many people who know too much, and all of their soul mates to whom information can be conveyed with no one the wiser.

As easy as Sirius’s solutions sound, as much of a relief as it would be to have an actual experienced adult with them right now, that’s exactly the kind of thing Voldemort is counting on—them to make a rash decision out of desperation, because it seems like it’s not a big deal, and then they’ve been found out.

Maybe eventually, when they’ve checked and double checked security and have backup plans and safe houses in case things go south, but in the meantime—they all refuse vehemently.

Luna writes about Potterwatch, and Hermione makes a venture into a muggle town to snatch a radio, leaving a bit of cash in its place, and when they finally manage to listen it’s—the most absurd and wonderful thing they never expected.

Tuning in each week, the familiar voices soothe them—Sirius is code named “Romulus” in his husband’s honor, and he and Fred typically go back and forth with humor that makes the darkness of the current climate feel slightly more bearable, with Kingsley coming on as “Royal” and breaking it up whenever they veer too far off topic.

(They can’t be with their loved ones, right now, but they can hear the confirmation that they’re okay, reassurance that there is still fight left on their side—and somehow, that makes it all okay.)

Harry finds himself spending hours staring at the snitch Dumbledore’d left him, desperately trying to understand.

_Still completely clueless as to what ‘I open at the close’ means_, he writes to Luna late one night, when Ron is on watch and Hermione’s passed out, snoring loudly (which is odd for her, but she’s been so exhausted lately they’re not teasing her about it).

_You’d think Dumbeldore could’ve found a way to explain the hint to you, even if he couldn’t in the will specifically, _Luna agrees. She’s quiet for a moment, and even hundreds of miles away Harry can feel her thinking, attempting to figure it out—the wheels of her inquisitve mind move a million miles an hour.

_I suppose the close could mean war’s end—the close of this chapter of history. Or of your time at Hogwarts. Or even the close of a chapter of yourself, maybe? The end of you specifically doing a certain thing, fighting a particular battle, holding a particular value…although historically, speaking from a spiritual perspective, death is often considered a closing of one door and an opening of another—so he could mean it opens at your death, the close of your life on this spiritual plane._

Harry makes a face at the paragraph, though he knows she can’t see it, overwhelmed and a bit befuddled by the different theories and information she’s sent his way.

Nonetheless, he trusts Lu more than anyone, so he begins whispering variations of each prospective key with his lips pressed against the cold surface of the snitch.

He tries combinations, different wordings, before moving on to the next of her theories; attempt after attempt coming up empty. It gets to the point where he’s wondering if the snitch can just _tell_ that the things aren’t true, that he’s just saying what he thinks it wants to hear, when he quietly whispers, “I am about to die.”

And he almost drops the snitch as it pops open.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, too frazzled for a moment to even realize what it contains.

When he drops the ring into his open palm, his brow furrows with confusion; it’s the Gaunt ring—the former horcrux that’s been destroyed since before he even realized what it was. Since it injured Dumbledore’s hand with its protective spells.

(If it’s out of commission, already, has been taken care of for so long—why would the former headmaster bother to leave it to him?)

“An explanation would be nice,” Harry grumbles under his breath. “So of course I don’t get one. That would be too easy—too un-fucking-complicated for Albus Dumbledore. Being cryptic and making me work it out on my own is more important than me actually having the tools and information I need to end this stupid war, right?”

Fists clenched with frustration, he blows out a rattling breath, just—angry, and _tired_, so fed up with his whole life going to this cause and it doesn’t even matter because people in power like to hold all their cards close to their chest.

He wraps it in the old socks from the Dursleys he’d received for Christmas years ago, chucking it into the bottom of his trunk and out of sight, too tired and annoyed to bother attempting any further to figure it out at the moment.

Sends a message to Luna telling her she was right, thanking her for her help, and saying goodnight before turning out the lamp and flopping backward on the squeaky makeshift bed.

He forces himself to breathe deeply as he stares up at the ceiling, the weight of the past few days bearing down on him, all culminating in frustration regarding all the unanswered questions and useless objects Dumbledore left behind.

_(Here’s to hoping I don’t need it for any reason before I put together whatever clues he’s expecting me to find,_ Harry thinks to himself. _Before it costs me my life—or worse, someone else’s.)_

/

Something is—_off_, with Hermione.

She’s noticed for a while; over the summer it didn’t seem significant, so she’d just attributed it to trauma and mental illness and catastrophic events taking their toll on her body.

(Just depression naps. Just anxiety-induced nausea.)

(Just a perpetual sense of something being off because the entire _world_ is wrong, at the moment.)

But this is…more than that. She can’t deny it’s something else, anymore.

At this exact moment she feels sick, and her boobs are sore, which—not atypical. Happens every month. Period symptoms, at least, she can deal with before everything else.

So she breaks out her medical kit for tampons and a preemptive muggle cramp relief medication, but before bringing the tablets to her mouth—she pauses.

Because though she’s normally nearly debilitated once a month, she can’t remember being hit with the usual wave of pain last month.

Or the month prior.

“No,” she whispers to herself, sure she’s beginning to work herself into a panic over nothing. “I noticed this already—it was just stress. I was just late because of stress, and then I missed one because I haven’t been eating enough.”

_(Stop being ridiculous, Hermione.)_

Except—this makes three that haven’t come when they’re supposed to.

(The soreness. The nausea. The fainting. How _tired_ she’s been since they got back to Tonks manor.)

(Her emotions that have been off the charts haywire, the way she’s been crying or angry over things she’s been able to brush aside a million times before.)

She shakes her head with disbelief, muttering beneath her breath. “There’s no way.”

Because she’s been brewing the same potion for _years_, ever since she was old enough to need it; has been careful to make sure it’s perfect every time.

(It’s a potion she could brew in her sleep, she’s thought a million times before.)

She bars the door to her room of the extended tent before allowing herself to truly consider the possibility, to desperately summon her cauldron from within—the same cauldron that’s gotten her through so many months and years of the familiar potion without a hitch.

It looks the same as always—and the batch she’s been taking now would be different anyway, given that her last three month brew had been up in July.

As best she can figure, _if _what she’s thinking is true, it would’ve been her last batch that lapsed, at some point in May, or April, even.

_“Evanesco_,” she casts, vanishing the entire cauldron-full to inspect the dregs. She lights her wand and truly checks every inch of the interior, in a way she’s never had cause to do before.

And she almost thinks she’s hallucinating it for a moment—but there, burned into the metal, half crusted and mostly gone, there’s something.

She scrapes at it with the tip of her wand until it comes off, and sucks in a breath of shock when she brings it close enough to her face to see.

(Fig leaf.)

(It’s entirely harmless—and a single leaf counteracts both moondew and baneberry, rendering a perfectly brewed contraceptive charm useless.)

Hermione gapes, hand shaking as she stares at the brittle leaf remains.

(A single leaf that’s turned her whole world upside down.)

“How—” she swallows heavily as the implications crash down on her.

She blinks back overwhelmed tears as she points her wand at her abdomen; her whole body trembles, but her wand arm is steady—a soldier’s hand.

_“Transversus revelio.” _

A dim wand indicates a negative result; Hermione’s glows with bright white light.

“Oh, my god.” Her left hand moves to gently rest against the spot.

(Pregnant.)

(She’s in the middle of a war—a soldier, on the run with the most wanted person in Britain, a bounty already on her head. And _pregnant_.)

And not through an accident, or mishap—but because her potion was actively _tampered_ with.

(How? Who would bother, when the odds of it working would’ve been so, so slim—and of those who would bother, who would’ve had access to where the potion was kept in Gryffindor tower back in April and May when they would’ve had to do so? Would’ve known what ingredient to use to counteract the potion without any visible effects, would’ve has cause to do so?)

(What student could’ve possibly wanted to do such a thing?)

The realization crashes down on her, and she collapses to the floor, head pressed to her knees.

“The spy,” she whispers to herself—and then she’s laughing, a bitter, acidic laugh.

Because of course, to a man like Voldemort this is the best way to cripple her—the best way to make her weak.

He’d figured out she was crucial to Harry’s success, had heard that she had a bleeding heart, most likely—heard tales of SPEW, and her fighting on many creatures’ behalf, and assumed being soft to be a weakness.

He’d figured to cause her to become a mother unexpectedly would exploit that softness—take her out of the picture entirely.

(He’s underestimated her, then. Her softness is her strength.)

Hermione steels her jaw, tucking the cauldron back away—evidently she has no need of it at the moment, anyway.

She carefully holds it together long enough to change into sweatpants and a tee shirt, turn off the light, and lay down in the bed serving as hers for the time being; only then does she let herself feel it.

_Pregnant_. At least three months so. In the middle of a war, with a target on her back.

To keep it is—the most irresponsible thing imaginable.

Having a baby right now would be so, so stupid—to bring a child into this shitshow, especially when their parentage would make them an even greater target.

God, does she know it’s a bad idea. And if it were anyone else in the world and they wanted to terminate, she would understand—would one hundred percent support them.

But.

(_But_.)

That’s just— not her. She supports every woman who’s made that decision, of course she does, but that’s never been something on the table for her. She can’t even bring herself to truly consider it, even knowing that right now she can’t give this baby the world she wishes.

(As reckless as it is to do so, as much as it’s exactly what Voldemort is counting on, she can’t help but love this baby.)

(Nothing in the world has ever come so easily.)

And she wishes so, so desperately she could tell Draco—could share her terrified excitement, with him, could bask in the joy of impending parenthood they’ve both always tentatively looked forward to; could share her fear and desperation, because there’s no one who understands her so well as her soul mate. Her first instinct, whenever anything goes awry is to turn to him—

And yet, even though he deserves to know more than anyone—he can’t.

He’s among the enemy, at the center of the fortress, already in danger for being a traitor they don’t know is in their midst—if he found out he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing something reckless to get to her—or worse, dying in a desperate attempt to take out Voldemort to create a better world for their child.

Or, worst of all, if he were found out—if Voldemort realized who he had in his hands all along, the ways he might use Draco against her.

The ways he might threaten their _child_ to force her soul mate to do worse.

God, does she want to tell him, but she really fucking _can’t._

It’s all consuming, this feeling—the realization, the shock that forces out any other emotion, the way her mind can’t rest, running through every moment of her life going forward and everything she’ll need to do, and every minute since the baby was conceived.

(The way she panics, because _oh god I’ve had a few drinks since May—_she’s remembering the few drinks she’d had at the wedding, and one on Harry’s birthday; the ways she hasn’t been taking care of herself, and what if all along she’d been hurting the tagalong she didn’t know she’d had? Fucking them up before they’re even here?)

And she has this moment—where she’s sobbing, because she wants nothing more than to protect her baby from the darkness of the world, to run and hide and keep them safe, and wishes they could’ve come at a different time, or in a different life, one where she could just celebrate—

This moment where she feels that there is no one in the world she understands so thoroughly as Lily Evans Potter, despite never having met the woman.

This moment of wishing above all else she could speak to the older woman, somehow; of such all-encompassing clarity, a muggleborn in a world that doesn’t think she belongs, a soldier in a war for her very existence who is so bone tired and weary and still has to fight—

This moment of knowing her situation is _shit _and her baby is about to be the greatest target of the darkest wizard and she might give everything she possibly has to protect them and it still might not be enough.

She curls up onto her side, hand over the spot on her abdomen that’s yet to swell, unable to see anything but the protectiveness that’s now thrumming through her veins, a lioness whose only goal is her cub’s survival.

(But there’s a war still on; she has to fight for a world that’s worth surviving in, first.)

/

Pansy’s panting as she spits the blood out of her mouth where she’s collapsed on the floor.

Her nerves keep twitching from the crucio’s aftershocks, but she finally manages to shakily sit up.

She wipes at her running nose, more blood coming off along the back of her hand as she does.

(What a way to spend the last night before the Hogwarts Express—the last night before her final year of school.)

It’s a year already guaranteed to be hell on earth—and yet she’s desperately looking forward to the escape; to a different manner of pain, at least.

“You will not,” Dolohov hisses at her, wand still raised. “stray again. Any further disloyalty to our cause will result in further torture—and us looking into your soul mate. They will not survive. The Dark Lord does not tolerate treason.”

Forcing herself to nod, Pansy doesn’t think about what he’s saying—doesn’t even consider the implications, just in case there’s a legilmens poking around.

He lets up at last, motioning for her to leave the room.

Despite how badly she wants to flee, to disapparate sobbing, she maintains her graceful exterior, the way that’s been drilled into her being her entire life—even torture to near death is no excuse for lacking manners in the Parkinson household.

So she quietly and carefully exits at a brisk pace, expression cold and unbothered and head held high, though the evidence of her ordeal must be clear on her person.

(Holds back a shudder, unsure even now if the man who’s just cursed her for hours is the very one who assaulted her a year prior—gagging, internally, at the thought that he might be the one who knows her so intimately and she’ll never know.)

(It could be anyone, here.)

It’s the reason she hasn’t slept in months, her reflection currently that of a walking corpse as the not knowing eats away at her—as every moment at Death Eater headquarters rots away her soul, makes her curl even further inward.

She enters Narcissa’s chambers, under the guise of helping with the woman’s work.

As soon as the door is warded behind her, she collapses on her friend’s mother’s floor, letting her tears soak the carpet.

Narcissa is at her side in an instant, the greatest maternal figure she’s ever known, a gentle hand soothingly rubbing at her back. “I know, sweetheart. Let it out. It’s okay.”

Pansy feels the tell-tale tingle of a healing spell being cast on her; when she’s able to move her hands from her face, Narcissa holds out a vial of nourishing potion with a worried glance.

“Twelve hours,” the older woman’s soft voice reminds her as she downs the viscous liquid. “You’ve done so well, sweet girl. You are so very strong. You just have to make it a bit longer.”

“Don’t you wonder if we’ll even make it that far?” Pansy asks, voice a raspy whisper. “If it’s even worth trying to?”

“I do.” The admission is accompanied by sad eyes. “But there is light, and there is hope out there. Even despite it all, I believe humanity is good at heart. The Order will succeed—and we will help them.”

Nodding, Pansy wipes her face, putting her walls back up before heading out to complete her task for the day.

(She doesn’t see the anguish on Narcissa’s face the moment she’s gone.)

/

Later that night, Narcissa wakes with a start—something she can’t explain.

But her magic is stirring, restless.

_(Something big is happening.)_

Those still at headquarters are in the dining room; as her son sleeps, his night full of nightmares and worries, she’s drawn to the family library.

Some of it’s been depleted, during the Dark Lord’s rages and revels, but the protection charms she maintains have kept the majority of their precious works intact.

Her magic is screaming at her, something bone deep clamoring for her attention, until she’s at the back wall, so deep within the shelves she can almost forget the horrors that have overtaken the place that’s never been a true home.

And she finds herself standing at her own copy of the Black family tapestry—they all have one, of course. The mark where Walburga blasted Sirius of decades ago is still a signed spot, the different tapestries all connected via Protean Charm.

The tapestries are self-sustaining, though; barring instances such as that of Sirius’s disowning, it updates entirely independently, the magic involved moving in and of itself when necessary.

Narcissa’s not quite sure why the tapestry called to her, this of all nights; her gaze trails along the tree, down to where her sister’s daughter’s name is intwined with that of her new spouse, one of the older Weasley boys, their son beneath them.

She keeps scanning the tapestry, when she sees it—sucks in a deep breath of shock.

There, beneath Draco’s name—a small circular glow of magic.

(Not here, yet—but soon. The tapestry preparing for its newest member’s arrival, just a few months away.)

“Oh,” she whispers, heart aching with understanding.

The how is unclear—she knows enough about her son and his soul mate both to know they’re exceedingly careful beings, so the odds of such a thing are slim to none.

But the how doesn’t matter, at this point; the tapestry doesn’t register until a new life is viable, and the witch has actively chosen to carry to term.

(It was how she’d known Draco would make it, so long ago—how she’d managed not to lose hope.)

The glow she sees now…

(A grandchild—she has a grandchild on the way.)

She casts a wandless disillusionment charm, wanting no trace of the magic, just in case—they can’t afford for anyone else to know.

(Even Draco, as much as it kills her—as much as she knows it must be eating away at Hermione.)

She closes her eyes, leaning against the shelves for a moment.

(Ten seconds a day, she allows herself to feel—ten seconds to process everything, be as sad or angry or scared as she needs, before she forces herself to lock it all back up.)

(It’s the only way she’s survived all these years.)

When the ten seconds are up, she opens her eyes, standing straight up and walking away as though she’s just done a bit of light reading.

Grabs a book off one shelf offhandedly, murmuring a charm to disguise it as a healing text.

She writes a note, in a cipher only Andromeda will understand, and tucks it inside the book she then slips in Pansy’s trunk.

(She’ll explain what the girl must do with it in the morning—can’t afford a trace.)

“Merlin and Morgana, protect them,” she whispers desperately.

(Everything else is out of her hands.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from more by halsey
> 
> Okay so…yes, I went there. please don’t hate me.
> 
> I have put so much thought into whether this is where I want the story to go or not, bc it is obviously veering so far from both canon and the typical hp fic, but the more I thought about it the more sense it made and the more perfectly it clicked into what I envision for the rest of this arc, and it genuinely feels in character for all players involved.
> 
> I hope y’all are equally on board/not too angry with me—I am so, so excited for where this is bringing us. I promise I am giving it my all.
> 
> all my love.


	41. everybody's waiting for you to break down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first and foremost, I want to address something many of y’all have reached out with concerns about: NOTHING will happen to the baby, I promise.
> 
> pregnancy loss is a very, very sensitive topic for me personally, as I know it is for some of you, and I would never delve into that territory without an explicit heads up; that being said, many things in this story go wrong but hermione losing the baby will absolutely not be one of them.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words//love//commentary-forever grateful to have you along for this ride.

Hermione probably should’ve expected it, but the days have all been so repetitive and blurred together she hasn’t noticed them passing. Hadn’t noticed they’d been on the run for a full month, now.

(She didn’t realize it was already September 1st.)

So she’s woefully unprepared when writing begins appearing along her arm—panics, immediately ceases breathing, fearing that something’s gone wrong, until she reads, _Made it onto the train—are you okay? What’s been happening? Tell me everything._

Her heartrate slows as she registers his message. The date. Time passing.

(Nearly four months since she’s seen him last.)

_We’re all fine, _she reassures; grateful, just this once, that they’ll have no way but this to communicate till the war ends.

(If he heard her voice, or saw her face—he’d know she’s keeping something from him in thirty seconds flat.)

(There is nothing so important as keeping him in the dark, now; nothing in the world matters beyond keeping their child safe.)

_You know you have to give me more than that, I’ve been worried sick! Are you eating, and sleeping, and taking care of yourself?_

A moment later, he adds, _I don’t know why I ask when I already know the answer is no._

Laughter slips through Hermione’s lips unintentionally, warmth blooming in her chest at her soul mate’s fond exasperation; the familiarity and comfort of it, even when things are the godforsaken mess they feel at the moment.

_Of course you haven’t spoken to me in months and you start with the roasting—hoow very typical of you, Romeo. _She smiles, knowing he’s rolling his eyes at her, before continuing. _I’ve been doing better, I promise. Ron’s mother hen side is full force with nowhere else to direct his energies. And we’re all doing alright, just—not having much luck with our mission. Getting a bit frustrated, of course, because sometimes it feels hopeless, but nobody’s pointed a wand at us in a month so at least there’s that._

_Sounds like a win to me, _Draco writes back. _Should’ve gotten Weasley and Pansy linked chess sets so they could play each other while you were away—merlin knows they could both use the distraction. She’s doing okay, by the way, since I know that’s your next question; it was a rough summer but she’s alive and alright, now._

Her heart hurts at the mention of her friend; the missing her, having no clue when they’ll be able to speak next…

(It’s nothing new, of course, but it sucks nonetheless.)

_Have you seen Ginny yet?_ She asks, seeking the confirmation both for herself and to ease the worries that nearly consume Ron whenever he thinks the others don’t notice.

(Whenever they’re not looking and his expression grows desolate, the guilt clearly eating away at him for not being there for his family during this of all times.)

They all miss the Weasleys, of course, but for Ron who’s always had so much security—the sudden split is especially brutal.

_Naturally—she and Blaise disappeared the moment they’d dropped their things in here, so god knows what compartment they’re desecrating at the moment. She looked well, briefly as I saw her._

_Good for them, honestly—_someone_ should be getting laid right now._

They’re talking incessantly for over an hour, just catching up on everything they havent’ been able to tell each other over the summer.

(Everything except the biggest of them all, of course, which he can’t know; even in just this conversation, it’s _killing _her.)

Harry and Ron ask her to pass along their hellos, when they come back inside; and once Ginny returns to Draco’s compartment on the train she commandeers the back of Draco’s dominant hand to begin sending messages back and forth with Ron, who does the same on Hermione’s end, earning a bemused look.

It doesn’t bother her, though—she’s happy to be the medium for their conversation, glad to do anything she possibly can to bring the family around her closer to each other when everyone is worlds apart. Glad to see relief—and a _smile—_on Ron’s face for the first time in what feels like forever, as his sister fills him in, as they razz each other like insults aren’t their way of saying _thank merlin you’re alright._

Eventually, once she has her hand back and is again having a rapid fair exchange of updates with her boyfriend, they get around to current events and the state of Britain—and Draco’s deluge of information brings her to a halt.

(How? How could things have possibly gotten so bad so fast?)

(She knew the darkness was descending, as it has been for most of their lives, but to have so rapidly veered towards genocide—)

Harry notices her go white with horror first; is instinctively pushing water at her, hands braced like he’ll catch her if that’s what she needs. “What’s wrong, Mia?”

“She did it,” she says faintly, trembling with the rage and terror consuming her. “She actually did it—it’s like 1940s Germany. My god. How is it possible—and if things are already this bad, what…but then of course, we—”

“ ‘Mione,” Ron says, voice kind but firm. “Focus. Tell us what you’re talking about so we know how to help. She who?”

She forces herself to take a deep breath, growing steady enough to explain. “Umbridge. And You-know-who, I suppose, we all know he’s behind it as well, but—” she blows out a breath of fury, shaking her head. “They’ve established a muggle born registry; it’s already in place. No muggle born students even felt safe going to Hogwarts, naturally, but beyond that it's—they’ve started putting us on trial for _stealing _magic.”

Her eyes start spilling over, because when she gets this angry it needs a way out—has to exit her or else she’ll explode. “They’re locking us up just for existing,” she whispers, livid. “This is how it starts. They dehumanize us so that when they kill us no one sees it as an atrocity, because we’re not even people, in their eyes. They separate us so that everyone sees us as other and there’s no one left to bother fighting on our behalf once we’re locked up.”

And Harry and Ron are horrified, of course; disgusted at the way people are treated as less than human for something so simple and out of their control as their identity.

They have chills at the thought—at the implications, the potential the situation has for devolving into an even greater atrocity. It’s already the stuff of nightmares.

(But there’s something especially awful about watching this person they love and respect more than anyone else use the word _us_—the knowing, that she would be among them if they weren’t here. That it’s people just like her currently being demonized and treated as subhuman.)

(Accused of not being truly magical, as though she’s not the most brilliant and proficient and clearly deserving of magic of everyone they’ve ever met.)

“They’re keeping the registry in the ministry, and they’re holding the trials down where you had your misuse of magic trial, Harry. It’s—Draco heard rumors it’s worse now, though. They’re keeping them in horrible conditions and surrounded by dementors to keep them downtrodden, hopeless and desolate that they’ll just confess to make it end, and the punishments when they do... It’s—god, it’s fucking barbaric.”

Ron intuitively moves to rub her back as she leans into Harry’s shoulder, both of them cocooning her in warmth and love.

(It’s not enough, though.)

And she still hasn’t told them about the baby, which she has no excuse for, no rationale except her own fear and desire for control.

(Her own need to have the whole plan figured out before she even begins to share the circumstances with the people around her, despite knowing she’ll feel better once she’s told them—once she’s told Harry, her best friend in the world.)

(Keeping it from them is hard—god, she wishes they knew; every moment of working so hard to hide it feels like a lie.)

And she wants to tell them, she does, but they’re already incredibly protective.

(When they find out they have a niece or nephew on board, too, they won’t let her out of their sight.)

It's—there’s something wonderful and horrible about being alone in this; it’s just her and the little nugget she carries against the world.

(Beautiful and isolating.)

She’s lost in thought when Harry says something; jerks her attention back to him with a questioning expression. “Sorry, come again?”

“We’ll sneak into the ministry and stop it, then,” Harry repeats, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Ron makes a face but doesn’t look at all surprised, or opposed. “Just when I thought we’d have a relaxing year, for once. Should’ve known.”

“We have to,” Harry insists, eyes narrowed in concentration now. “We can’t just—stand by and let this happen. We have to—to _do _something about it, let people know they’re not alone. Let them know the resistance is out there—that we’re still fighting, and he hasn’t won yet.”

Hermione chews on the inside of her cheek, for a moment, pondering. “Let’s do it. I want to, and more than that, it’s a good idea,” she decides at last.

“Then we will,” Ron assures her, expression determined. “There’s nothing more important, right now. We can start planning, be done with it before the holidays so we can get back to the horcrux hunting I know we’re all so fond of.”

She and Harry both make faces at his sarcasm, but she crosses her arms at the both of them. “But you know what this means.”

Harry scrunches his nose, like he knew this was coming, and Ron lets out a groan, mock-falling onto the couch.

_“Research,”_ they both bemoan in tandem.

/

Slowly, a majority of their time is consumed by their newfound attempts to find out everything they can about the Ministry, including but not limited to taking shifts spying on employees on every level—just hours and hours of largely useless and repetitive surveillance.

Hermione also spends hours upon hours paying attention as Draco rattles off every snippet of information he’s ever learned about the building, its security, its personnel—it’s almost scary, how much he’s picked up over the years.

They floo to and from their campsite every day; more than once they debate the risk of Grimmauld Place, but they’re still not sure if Snape has compromised it—and beyond that, even if he hasn’t, Harry’s fathers most certainly have security enchantments in place that would notify them of any entry.

(And they’re not willing to risk that, not yet.)

The whole endeavor is a large deviation from their actual task, of course, but a welcome one after the month and a half of fruitless efforts where horcrux hunting were concerned.

(Such a _relief, _to finally be doing something that feels useful—something that makes them feel like they’re making progress.)

All of their moods improve with the renewed sense of purpose; not to mention the vigor they all feel at actually leaving the tent, every day, and again being among society, even if beneath the invisibility cloak.

(They see Arthur head into work, once, when it’s just Hermione and Ron; the elder Weasley taking the outdoor entrance for reasons unknown to them.)

It’s painful, not being able to call out to him, but necessary—

(Everything they do now is necessary, Hermione reminds herself; can see Ron mentally reiterating, as he digs his heels in to keep from throwing himself at his father.)

In between shifts at the ministry and otherwise occupied by research to prepare for their jailbreak, they all find it much easier to relax back at the campsite.

Hermione finds herself again and again turning to Beedle the Bard, both in an attempt to understand Dumbledore’s purpose and for the sense of comfort and reminder of Draco it brings with it.

Harry finds her curled up in an armchair like that—tugs another next to her, close enough to read over her shoulder even though he knows it drives her crazy and he reads at about half her pace, but she loves him enough not to hex him the way she’d like to.

He makes a noise when she turns to the tale of the three brothers, and she swivels her hair to raise an eyebrow at him.

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, waving it away.

Having known him for seven years it takes, a tenth of a second for Hermione to know this is a lie, so she just maintains eye contact, knowing from experience that an expectant gaze will make him crack eventually.

Sure enough, within moments he scowls at her pointing to the chapter heading. “Just—that symbol, the triangle thing. I’ve seen it before, but I can’t quite remember where. It just—stuck out to me, is all.”

“Hmm.” Hermione focuses her own attention on the odd shape. “It could be a rune, but—not one I’ve ever seen. I can look into it, if you’d like? See if it’s in any of the books I have on hand?”

“You have _multiple_ books on runes specifically on hand for out—you know, I’m not even going to ask. That would be great, thanks.”

“Smart boy,” his sister praises with a grin, before turning back to the story.

Even as she pretends to return to reading, she watches him; uses the moment of his distraction to observe him without his knowing, for once.

They’re worried about the ministry, and the break in, and of course the baby is constantly at the forefront of her mind, so she has more than enough to be stressed already—

But she can’t seem to stop thinking about her brother’s life—about whether there’s a way for him to survive Voldemort’s defeat.

(If there truly is a piece of the dark lord’s soul attached to his own, if he truly is a horcrux—)

(Well, she saw what was left of the diadem and diary after the bits of soul were destroyed.)

And part of her wants to insist this will be different—that there’s a difference between intentionally infusing an object with yourself, rather than a spare bit latching on to keep from being obliterated.

(But no matter where she looks, how much thinking or theorizing or research she does, there’s no evidence—there are no _answers_.)

She can’t deal with the uncertainty; can’t bear contemplating a future in which Harry isn’t at her side.

(She’ll burn down heaven itself to save him, if that’s what it takes.)

/

Hermione wakes up feeling just as tired as she had when she fell asleep; but she’s not nauseous, which brings her to three full days keeping meals down, so she’s still counting it as a win.

Ron’s out, likely out for a run, or something, as he’s taken to doing once a day or so under the invisibility cloak, needing the space and sunshine to keep him from spiraling downward.

Meanwhile, she can hear Harry’s voice chattering away—using the mirrors, she’s sure, to communicate with his dad or Luna.

He looks up as she walks out, smiling at her the way he always does when she walks into the room—like she deserves that kind of love, like her presence makes things better.

(It’s a kind of love and adoration she can never live up to—but god, does it make her want to try.)

(Her brother’s smile makes the whole world brighter.)

“Morning, Mia. Breakfast?”

She nods tiredly, murmuring her thanks as she pads across the room, fluffy socks quietly sliding along the floor as she moves to sit down beside him.

It’s pretty chilly inside the tent, even despite the warming charms they’ve been casting regularly, so her oversized sweater serves both to keep her warm and to hide where she’s started to show.

(It’s getting harder to keep it from them, physically; and unobservant as they are, they’re going to notice, eventually. She has to find a way to tell them, but—)

(Not yet.)

Leaning up against her brother’s shoulder, she moves to wave hi to Andy on the other end of the mirror before turning her attention to the toast in front of her.

“You still feeling better?” Harry asks worriedly, and she can feel him cataloguing the bags beneath her eyes, the sharpening of her cheek bones.

(They’ve all lost weight, hurting as they have been for adequate food, but it’s hitting her especially hard.)

(And Harry might be the worst at romantic entanglements and understanding certain things that happen around him, but he’s unquestionably good at noticing when someone’s not alright—when someone’s forcing a smile.)

Hermione nods and reassures him, catching a pensive look from his aunt.

She sits in on their conversation quietly, humming her amusement when Andy relays something Tonks had done the week before, as she slowly works her way through the breakfast and cup of tea.

They talk about Teddy, who’s doing well, and Sofia, who’s put out with them for leaving, and Sirius, who has thus far kept from getting himself into trouble in their absence, not that any of them believe it’s a streak that will last much longer.

After ten minutes or so, Andy clears her throat. “Harry, could you give me a moment alone with Hermione? I need to speak with her about something.”

Harry’s unbothered by the request, says goodbye and hands it over easily before heading outside to practice his wandwork and give them some space.

In contrast, Hermione is filled with trepidation, automatically tensing at being singled out.

(Immediately assumes the worst, of course, because life has shown her it’s the most likely to be true.)

She’s close to Andy, of course, but what could Harry’s aunt possibly not want him to overhear?

The older woman lets out a world weary sigh as she meets Hermione’s gaze. “How are you, dear?”

“I—” Hermione laughs, briefly, at the absurdity of it all. “I mean, I’ve been better. But we’re all safe, and okay, and I can finally speak to Draco again, which makes everything better, really.” She cocks her head questioningly, too antsy to continue with pleasantries and avoiding the subject, whatever it is. “What did you need to speak to me about?”

Andy purses her lips. “Pansy floo’d me a package for you, through the Room of Requirement fireplace. Narcissa stuck it in her school trunk, disguised, with strict orders that Draco was not to know, and for her to get it to me with the utmost secrecy.”

The hairs all across Hermione’s body stand on end with a sense of foreboding—a knowing even she doesn’t understand. “What—why would she—what is it?”

“In a code the two of us have used for years, she wrote a note,” Andy continues softly. “With a spell she created almost two decades ago. She wants you to have it. And the package itself…”

She holds up a book so it’s visible through the mirror, and Hermione’s heart stops.

_(Astronomy Atlas, _the title reads, _A complete undertaking of all known constellations.)_

“Oh,” Hermione gasps, a hand going to her bump instinctively.

(All children in the Black family have constellation names, of course.)

(She’s been thinking of the stars nonstop, lately.)

The gift means that some way, somehow, Narcissa _knows_—and made the effort to get information to her through Pansy; so she knows, too, that Draco _can’t _be told.

(Wants Hermione to know she’s not alone, maybe.)

“Hermione?” Andy says softly, and the question is there in her eyes, one woman to another.

(The significance of the moment hangs in the air between them, tinder ready to spark.)

Hermione gives a nod of confirmation, the corner of her lip turning upward in a nervous, terrified smile. “Yes,” she whispers softly—so, so softly.

“You’re—”

“I’ll be needing the book soon,” she interrupts, gently explaining, “I haven’t told the boys, yet. Haven’t quite worked out how, with the timing and everything. It’s all so—complicated.” Her voice breaks on the last word, the cacophony overwhelming her.

“Oh, sweet girl,” Andy soothes. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. I’m thrilled for you of course, but it’s okay if your feelings about the whole thing are nuanced.”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth. “I—yes. It’s been—a wonderful and horribly stressful time.”

They only speak for a minute more, but it’s—everything, having someone know, someone who loves her, someone she can turn to.

(And knowing that Narcissa, too, is somehow aware—that her first actions were a protective spell and a baby name book feels like an outpouring of love.)

She’s only ever had the one conversation with the older woman—doesn’t know her well enough to read her.

(And yet somehow she knows it’s her future mother in law’s blessing, a reminder that she’s not alone. _They’re _not alone.)

It helps.

“It’s not going to be easy, this,” she whispers, thumb tracing up and down over the hardness where her little one has only just begun. “But you are already so, so loved,”

(She doesn’t know it, but they’re the same words another muggleborn witching fighting in a war for her very being spoke to her baby, timing the worst possible but precious nonetheless.)

Later that night, she stares up at the stars while the boys sleep, murmuring stories of the different myths each constellation is named after to the baby in lieu of reading.

(As always, her eyes catch on Draco.)

/

Harry’s aimless, their efforts lately feeling entirely useless.

That’s not true, strictly speaking, but he feels especially lacking in contribution as they continue their preparations for the ministry escapade; as Ron provides a lifetime of knowledge about both magical Britain and the ministry itself and Hermione makes backup plan after backup plan and potion after potion to prepare.

He’s on watch late one night, absent mindedly doodling on his arm and thinking nothing of it; he and Luna have more than once left a sleeve of notes and sketches for the other to wake up to.

But a moment later her familiar writing asks, _Harry why are you drawing the deathly hallows symbol on yourself at three o’clock in the morning?_

Immediately on the defensive, he replies, _why are you _awake_ at three o’clock in the morning?_

And a moment later, _what do you mean, the deathly hallows symbol?_

His girlfriend pauses for a beat before responding—something she almost never does.

(It’s this tell that makes the back of his neck prickle; this means something, if it’s taking Luna of all people aback to put into words.)

_The story of the three brothers from Beedle the Bard—it explains the three deathly hallows. Any man who possesses all three becomes the master of death._

She draws a triangle higher on their arm. _The cloak of invisibility. _A line next to it. _The unbeatable wand—they call it the Elder Wand. _And beside that, a small circle. _The resurrection stone; allows you to see those you love that have died._

_But that’s just a kid’s story, isn’t it?_

_Everything’s just a story till you see it with your own eyes. _He hears the sentence in her voice—not trying to wax poetic, but always saying the most profound things offhandedly. _Most people assume it’s just a legend. But my father always thought there were too many seeds of truth in it to be made up—there have been rumors of an unbeatable wand, the “death stick” if you will, for centuries. And the cloak…well, not to be dramatic, but Harry your cloak is unlike any other._

_What do you mean?_

_There are plenty of other invisibility cloaks out there, but the charms fade with time—I know Hermione’s tried to explain that to you before, that the spellwork can wear off. But yours—your father had it before you, obviously from childhood or he never would’ve been able to make the Marauders’ Map, and still it’s impeccable. The quality and condition are untarnished even now; that’s…impossible to explain within the realm of the normal laws of magic._

Harry frowns, because—the more she explains, the less sense it all makes.

A memory surfaces—the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw, just a few months prior.

(_Intended to hide the wearer from Death_, she’d said—enough so to conceal from those already dead as well.

(His cloak—truly one of the deathly hallows.)

_So we’re pretty sure both the wand and the cloak are real. Which means odds are the stone is too—but how would something like that stay hidden, all this time?_

And _why _is the symbol so familiar—why can he not get the shape out of his head? Why is he so certain he’s seen it before?

_I mean in theory it could’ve been destroyed, but I find that highly unlikely; given that all three objects are intended to evade death they must be nearly indestructible. It’s more likely that it was lost in rubble or discarded as a trinket, or a particular wizarding family got ahold of it and has kept it themselves and passed it down, like the Potters have with your cloak._

_Makes sense._

It stays on his mind throughout the day, this triangular emblem he can’t stop wondering about.

And the stone; he has confirmation from Helena that the cloak is indeed real, and there are enough rumors about the wand to believe it, but where could the stone possibly be?

(How could something so precious be lost?)

Perhaps passed down through another family, Luna had postulated; but even then why wouldn’t there be rumors, or records?

Unless…unless even they didn’t realize what they possessed. Thought it just an heirloom.

He dozes off, lost in thought, and his dreams are a kaleidoscope of chaotic memory.

First hes at an ASA meeting, and everything seems normal until the members all scream and disappear from the chamber of secrets, and he’s riding the basilisk, and then he’s at the zoo with his aunt and uncle, talking to the boa in the exhibit, until the glass melts and he’s Nagini, slithering towards Arthur at the ministry.

And then the scene shifts again, following his serpentine memories to a snake nailed to a door in the shape of an S, and Morfin Gaunt hissing in parsletongue at the ministry official; Merope is there, looking entirely innocent and beaten down, not at all as though she’ll give birth to the greatest darkness wizarding Britain has ever seen.

Marvolo is there too, screaming and spitting in his face, yanking the locket around Merope’s neck and shoving his fist in Harry’s face to force his gaze onto the ring snug on his finger—

And at last Harry jerks awake, gasping.

“Oh, god.”

He’s out of his seat instantly, delving into his trunk for the bundle of socks, the image of the ring in his dream burned into his brain.

He fumbles with the socks when he finally gets them out, having to bend over to scoop them back up when they fall to the floor.

It’s there, though, exactly as he’d recalled during the dream; split down the middle, due to whatever Dumbledore had used to destroy the horcrux within.

(But right on the surface of the stone inlaid on the ring, it’s there—the deathly hallows symbol.

“There’s no way,” he whispers to himself with wide eyes. “What are the odds?”

He’s tempted—fuck, is he tempted to test it out right now.

(The chance to speak to his parents, for the first time; to tell the thank you. Beg their advice.)

But he doesn’t know the story well enough to know how it works, regardless; and beyond that, wouldn’t want to use it for the first time without asking Hermione and Ron’s thoughts first.

(They always seem to know more than him about these things.)

So he waits—anxious and impatient, sits on the couch staring at the ring.

They enter the tent not too long after, mid laughter and shivering from the fall chill they still haven’t adjusted to.

They both immediately notice Harry’s position, Hermione’s eyes narrowing shrewdly. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Ron snorts. “We already do, mate. Just tell us.”

“So…Luna and I are pretty sure the Deathly Hallows are real, and I have two of them.” He blurts it out impulsively, feeling his entire face flush as they both stare at him in disbelief. “I know how it sounds, but we’ve thought about this, seriously.”

The words spill out of him as he attempts to explain—the familiar symbol, Luna’s own theories and thoughts on the matter, the evidence before them.

Slowly, they begin adding their own thoughts to the conversation, trying to find holes in the theory, but—

(It makes too much sense not to be true.)

“Merlin,” Ron mutters, staring wide eyed at the ring in Harry’s hand. “You really have two of the three Deathly Hallows. Bloody hell.”

“Er…yeah, I’m still trying to comprehend that part, myself.” He turns to Hermione with an earnest smile. “But this is a solution, see? I know you’ve been worrying about the whole me-being-a-horcrux thing since we figured it out last year, even though you’re trying not to let on in front of me, but I’ll just find the Elder Wand and become the master of death, problem solved.”

His sister’s glare is enough to make him cower. “Harry James, we are not relying on that plan. Are you kidding? I’ll fucking kill you if you try.”

“Okay, okay, fine, but it’s a good backup plan.”

“Honestly, it’s off the wall enough it just might work,” Ron comments, earning a smile from Harry and Hermione’s wand pointed at him. “Easy, woman, I’m just saying! He has a point, is all.”

Sighing, Hermione tucks her wand away again, hands rubbing at her temples with exhaustion. “So, an unbeatable wand to find, a ministry to break into, two more horcruxes to destroy, and a dark lord to defeat. What could possibly go wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from eyes open by taylor swift
> 
> I am full of such elated relief right now I don't even have words. thank god. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in four years.
> 
> Stay safe and take care of yourselves. next chapter coming soon.
> 
> all my love


	42. wake up a different person

His soulmate is hundreds of miles away, and yet—Draco _knows _something is off.

It’s a relief, being at Hogwarts and finally able to communicate again; finally able to speak, rather than taking turns bruising themselves to communicate that they’re still alive.

And as horrific as Hogwarts is, at the moment, anything is a step up from what he experienced over the summer.

Even as the Carrows crack down—as they’re asked to perform illegal curses on younger students.

Even as the light and fight are beaten out of them by every method in the book.

It never truly works, of course, not with ASA still going strong. They’re more careful than ever, and meet much less frequently, just in case—but it’s _there_, a reprieve from the hell an openly Death Eater headmaster has allowed the school to become.

Only Aaliyah can open the chamber, with Harry gone, but she’s currently teaching Neville to say open in parsletongue—he insists, in case there ever comes a time she doesn’t want to take the risk.

And it’s wonderful, all of them having a safe haven together, but—it’s hard, too, the days when someone in the room’s lost a family member.

(When it’s another person in the room’s own family that’s done the killing.)

But they don’t take it out on each other, even on the bad days. They just try to find some semblance of peace, maintain the unity and love that have made everything thus far bearable.

The true saving grace of it all is that Draco and Pansy have been made Head Boy and Girl—which, definitely biased, Snape not even attempting to hide the favoritism, not even trying to pretend Voldemort doesn’t rule Hogwarts, now—

But in any case, it’s their reality—and right now, that means they get private quarters of their own, where they, Blaise, Neville, and Ginny have taken to hiding out. A place where they can unequivocally be themselves, and never worry about being found.

A place where they can be honest about what they’re feeling, plan for how to handle the madness Hogwarts has become, where eleven year olds are forced to perform illegal torture curses and students are permanently damaged by the degree of severity they’re experiencing.

(It figures, that this solace would come to them when three of their number aren’t with them to share it with.)

Draco is doing rounds with Neville, one night; he’d had to pretend it was an insult in their prefects’ meeting, but is of course delighted, having the best night of patrols he’s had in weeks as they chat about anything and everything in the world around them.

“I’m a little worried,” Neville says quietly, as the round a corner in the fifth floor corridor. “About Gin.”

(Understanding instantly floods through Draco.)

Ginny’s been quiet—not just less talkative, or oddly pensive, but an entirely uncharacteristic silence.

He wouldn’t blame her, or anyone, for trying to keep their head down with everything currently occurring in the castle, but her shift was overnight; brazen and defiant, even in the face of detentions and crucios, and then suddenly anything but.

She’s still fighting for their cause, still working to undermine the Carrows and Snape with every waking breath, but without a word escaping her.

“Me too,” Draco admits. “There’s something she’s keeping from us—even Blaise doesn’t know what it is.”

Neville rubs at his jaw, concern etched in his stance. “I just—I feel like she’s not telling because it’s something that’s going to get her into serious trouble; whatever she’s planning, it’s a bad idea, and she doesn’t want anyone to know until it’s too late to stop her.”

(Which it would be entirely like her to do—she’s as brash as any Gryffindor has been, but a lifetime of being close knit with the twins has made her crafty—has taught her how to get away with plotting the punches she’ll throw.)

Nodding, Draco lets out a deep sigh. “Whatever it is, we’ll keep an eye out. Make sure she doesn’t get herself into too much trouble.”

“If such a thing is even possible,” Neville grumbles, forcing open tired eyes.

He’s been taking too much onto his plate, this year—taking risks, getting no sleep and watching his grades tank as he makes resistance and watching out for younger students his priority.

(It’s admirable, but Draco and Pansy are both terrified for him, as well.)

It’s all weighing heavily, on Draco, even though it feels so fucking out of his control.

His entire life, it’s just---everything, out of his fucking control.

(Everything, he’s always helpless to stop, helpless to fix, to do anything but watch and hurt and deal with the fallout when the damage is done.)

And on top of everything else, he can tell something has changed with Hermione.

He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, even now that they’re able to speak every day again. Isn’t quite sure why things suddenly feel so much more dire, when they’ve both been at the center of it all for ages, now.

But it’s clear his soul mate’s devotion to the cause has reached unprecedented heights—that as much as she loves him, as much as she wants their personal quest to be over, there is nothing in the world so important to her as Voldemort’s defeat.

(it’s—terrifying, the degree of urgency she’s begun to demonstrate.)

The desperation he can sense, even just through the messages across their skin, makes him wonder just how chaotic her mind is; how much there is to this breakdown he can’t see.

/

By the time they’re ready to invade the ministry, Hermione’s made them repeat back every step of the plan so many times they could recite it in their sleep.

Both boys roll their eyes, but it’s clear they’re secretly glad for her tendency towards over preparedness; both so nervous they’d otherwise be the reason something goes wrong.

“I still don’t see why you get to take the cloak and _we_ have to Polyjuice,” Harry grumbles, though he’s clearly not truly irritated.

Sighing, Hermione stares him down as she has every time they’ve had this argument thus far. “_Because, _Harry, whoever is under the cloak is are secret weapon and our last ditch effort at escape. We can’t risk that person deciding to do something impulsive and _risky _that jeopardizes our chances at getting out safely; and besides that, while your defense is best and Ron’s an expert at strategy, I’m the best at coming up with ways out and wandwork in the moment because I’m always postulating several backup plans.”

Guilt bubbles up in her chest at the deception; because while it’s their best chance at success, it’s _also _true that she hadn’t even considered a version of events that would require her to take Polyjuice.

(Polyjuice can’t be ingested while pregnant, of course.)

Just one more lie in the web she’s begun to weave out of necessity.

She’ll tell them soon, she will—they just have to get through this, and then she’ll tell them everything.

And it’s such a small thing, but _god_ does she miss Crookshanks—his familiar warmth ever curled up against her, head tucked over her arm or leg or waist.

He’s always been especially clingy whenever she’s unwell, too—more cuddly when she has a cold or cramps or a depressive episode. She can only imagine how attached he’d be now, when her state is more altered and delicate than ever before.

(He’s been her constant for years—the only one with her at her parents’ house, at her side in the mornings when being inside her own skin made her nauseous, when she was tired beyond words but couldn’t bear to close her eyes and face the nightmares she knew would come.)

Just a kneazle, a warm presence but so much more—such a hole in her heart, where she’s turned when life is hard for so, so long.

Harry and Ron share a look, while her back is turned; they’ve been worried for weeks, now.

She’s exhausted all the time, and forgetful, and altogether not herself; even her magic, ever steady has been just a bit more powerful than usual—not a bad, thing, but an unpredictability entirely out of character.

Even her balance has been off—everything about her is different. _Wrong_.

She’s putting on a good show, as always; doing the research and planning and keeping the three of them alive, doing everything possible to find an end to this war.

But she can’t hide that she’s an altered version of herself, one they’ve never seen before.

(It’s all they can do to watch her closely and hope she confides whatever it is before she falls apart.)

/

He and Blaise head into the Room of Requirement after rounds, one night, Pansy and Neville right behind them

Out of nowhere, an owl flutters out from behind a cupboard to land on the arm of the couch.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Draco demands, though his voice is soft. He reaches to stroke its feathers; it leans into the touch, moving in a rather odd fashion.

It gives a short hoot before starting to stretch—

And then it’s shimmering and elongating, talons turning to delicate legs and wings to familiar freckled arms, shiny feathers flowing into slightly messy ginger waves.

Ginny cracks her neck, before meeting all of their stares—it’s only then, they realize she and the owl had the same eyes.

“What the fuck?”

Ginny bursts out laughing, full blown cackles as she sprawls across one of the desks. “Surprise?”

“Are you—are you fucking kidding me?” Blaise gapes at her, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Ginevra, _what_?”

Neville rubs at his temples. “I hate to agree with him when he’s like this, but…”

“You just…decided to become an animagus?” Draco clarifies.

The redhead in question keeps snickering light heartedly, looking amused at their frustration. “Yeah, I was quiet all September because there was a mandrake leaf in my mouth.”

“Should’ve known that’s the only thing that would shut you up,” Pansy mutters under her breath, earning a jab in her side. “What, it’s not like I’m wrong. Can I ask why you decided to do this?”

A shrug from Ginny. “I mean, I figured it would be a useful skill for a year like this, when we can’t trust almost anyone, when messages might need to be passed without the Carrows or Snape being the wiser. Honestly, I’m just excited for Christmas—my brothers will _die_ when they find out.”

Draco turns to Blaise with a condescending expression. “How did you not notice your witch had a leaf in her mouth for an entire _month_? Are you that unobservant?”

Blaise shrugs. “I assumed she was using a new breath spray, or something—it’s not as though mandrake tastes bad, exactly.”

“I am—seriously reconsidering your sanity.”

“Fucking Gryffindors,” Pansy mutters, reaching to restyle her updo.

/

Harry makes a face as he downs the Polyjuice potion; unlike his twelve year old self, he knows what to expect, but it doesn't make the uniquely awful taste of this man’s identity any more palatable.

They’re well hidden, but he tries to stay quiet when the change hits nonetheless—when his joints begin to morph and he gasps as his lungs contort, hair shooting upward as the final touches of Polyjuice do their work.

He groans as he changes into the clothes of the man whose identity he’s assuming, tucking the different WWW products Hermione had demanded each of them carry into the unfamiliar pockets.

Beside him, Ron does the same, while Hermione casts sleeping charms on both men and hides away their unconscious bodies.

Once they’re ready, she pulls on Harry’s Invisibility Cloak; Ron exits their hideaway and heads toward the Ministry entrance, and she and Harry do the same five minutes later.

She sticks close to his side, their observation having shown that few would ever question Albert Runcorn—and even fewer would ever get close enough to him physically to stand a chance at recognizing her presence.

When they get to the transport stall in the pseudo-bathroom, Harry grimaces, waving for her to go first as planned; he sticks his shoe in the fake water before she climbs in and tugs the cord to be whisked away.

At the sound of the flush, someone begins to push open the stall door, and Harry marches toward them with the full rage of Runcorn’s entitlement. “Stay out!” he orders, in the unfamiliar baritone. “The piece of shit fucked up—only took my shoe.”

When the wizard on the other side recognizes him and apologizes profusely, he turns back to the toilet, and moments later he’s spiraling down, being sucked into a ministry fireplace.

His shoe is there, where Ron is discreetly waiting and acting as Hermione’s shield; as he tugs the shoe back on, he feels her fingers gently brush against his arm, indicating they’re good to go.

She’s careful, beneath the cloak—so, so careful, not to bump into anyone, not to move too quickly, not to step too loudly.

Careful to hide all hints of her existence.

She follows behind Harry, as closely as she dares, but focuses most of her energy on taking in everything around them—everything that points to the state of the world, everything no one thought to mention had changed.

(The altered fountain at the forefront of the lobby, the wanted posters adorning every wall with Harry’s face plastered larger than life, the open Death Eater sentiments being shared in broad daylight.)

All three of them climb into the elevator, Hermione pressing herself up against its wall where Ron stands between her and the open air, a barrier to keep anyone else who might climb on from accidentally bump into the form where they see only empty air.

“We might have to rethink our exit strategy,” Harry risks whispering out of the corner of his mouth, though his expression remains stoic.

“That’s why we have backups. We’ll figure something out,” Hermione promises.

Before Harry can reply, the floor squeaks as another person enters the elevator.

The air seems to almost go tight as an unsuspecting Arthur Weasley sidles to the back; his jaw goes tight at the sight of Harry, but he smiles at Ron. “Hello there, Reg. You holding up okay?”

Ron stutters, too taken aback to attempt an appropriate response. “I—that is—you—”

More footsteps, and then Hermione has to choke down a gasp.

Lucius is there, robes spotless and sneer intact, Cedric right behind him.

Lucius’s mouth turns upward when he spots Harry. “Ah, Albert. Good to see you.” His lip curls at the sight of Ron’s father. “Weasley,” he drawls.

“Lucius,” Arthur acknowledges him with a carefully controlled nod. “I’d heard the new minister pardoned you.”

The new minister under the imperius curse, at Voldemort’s behest.

“Yes, well, he’s certainly a much wiser leader than his predecessor. He’s seen fit to afford me certain…privileges, shall we say, that I have long awaited. You should follow suit.”

He turns to Cedric. “It’s good to see that at least some young people from pureblood families have turned out right, unlike Weasley here’s ilk.”

“Of course. My parents have always stressed the importance of making the right connections, and…_wise_ choices, shall we say, in times such as these.”

And they’d known the role Cedric was playing, known he was attempting to do so on behalf of the Order, but—seeing it in action is otherworldly.

(So _wrong_, seeing his smile not reach his eyes, seeing him rubbing elbows with Lucius, ignore Arthur’s presence as though the two aren’t close family friends.)

(Even knowing he’s acting, it’s a jolting reminder of the world they’ve re-entered; that as hellish as the last months have been, in a way they’ve been lucky to escape all this, even briefly.)

Lucius and Arthur both step out of the elevator, and Hermione finds herself holding her breath at the precarious nature of their mission.

Cedric watches Harry and Ron, for a moment; then, quietly, looking at the lift doors, says, “A good friend of mine has the same habit of tugging at his sleeve like that. Has since we met—back when he was fourteen, at the Quidditch cup.”

Harry, god-awful actor that he is, chokes on his own spit; Cedric snorts and raps him on the back until he’s standing again.

“And given that Reg Cattermole’s wife is on trial today, and he has severe anxiety and panic attacks, I doubt he could remain so calm in a small box with Lucius,” Cedric continues with a wry smile. “I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s very good to see you okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

He turns back towards the front of the elevator just in time for the doors to open, and steps out without looking back.

The doors close again, and Ron whispers, _“what the fuck,” _before they arrive at their destination.

And then they all straighten; rattled and emotional as they are, none of that matters, right now.

They get hyperfocused, as they’ve had to do every time the stakes are this high for the last seven years, all on high alert as they charge through the hallway.

Harry leads the way down to the courtroom, unfortunately familiar from his trial; frowns at the memory, the security of Sirius at his side he hasn’t had in months, now.

They hurry in just before a trial starts, shivering as they enter the chamber—passerby make way for Harry, all deferring to Runcorn and not noticing Ron right behind him.

The number of dementors is unprecedented—more than were stationed at Hogwarts, more than attacked Harry on Privet Drive—an entire barrage of them, separated from the audience by a prowling feline patronus.

And at the front of it all, looking smug and making the back of Harry’s scarred hand tingle, is Umbridge.

She’s cozy, entirely pleased with herself as she ruins lives—as the woman currently being interrogated sobs and pleads.

They split up as planned, Ron heading toward the holding cells as Harry and Hermione both approach the raised seats of the audience.

“From which witch or wizard did you steal your wand?” Umbridge inquires, voice simpering, and Hermione has to resist the urge to deviate from her mission to strangle the woman with her bare hands.

“I didn’t—it chose me at Ollivander’s when I was eleven, like any other witch.”

Hermione edges carefully towards the front of the dais, eyes on the parchment directly next to Umbridge.

It’s a bright white binding, gold writing on its cover and pages—unassuming, beautiful, even.

(Nothing to make it clear it’s a vessel of brutality—nothing to indicate the horrors of its use.)

She creeps closer, trying to make sure there’s no security spells on the volume; but of course not—Umbridge would never imagine anyone going to such lengths to stop her.

Not when their world is supporting her monstrosity—so glad to have someone to blame, when things are hard, so desperate for any measure of hope, they’ll rally behind anyone who promises change and a target for their anger.

Umbridge spots Harry, just then—smiles, because Albert Runcorn is a bastard and one of her closest allies, waves him over.

It’s he who holds her attention, distracting her while Hermione finishes making sure she’s all set to get rid of the registry.

Umbridge casually checks in with Harry, ignoring the poor muggleborn witch on trial—the woman’s life is at stake, and the old toad doesn’t respect her enough to wait to catch up with a colleague till after her fate has been decided.

The thought makes Hermione burn with rage; she fights back the urge to set the registry on fire—as satisfying as the sight would be, it would draw too much attention; would allow time for the fire to be put out before the monstrosity is destroyed.

(And she won’t risk that—will not leave, until this first step on the path to genocide is gone.)

(She’s seen registry of a marginalized people before, has seen their rights be restricted, their citizenship questioned and then stripped.)

(She knows how this story ends if they don’t put a stop to it now.)

Umbridge carries on with her verbal assault of Mary Cattermole, and it’s then that Hermione nonverbally casts _evanesce_—a single wave of her wand, and the registry ceases to exist.

It’s the most satisfying use of her magic in her entire life.

She braces for their escape—Ron should be done any minute now, and they’ll have to fight like hell to have any chance of making it out with security as intense as it is currently.

Mary continues to beg, and Umbridge continues to giggle, getting off on the woman’s suffering—because she sees her as so much less than human.

It’s then that even more dementors flood into the room, chased by a terrier patronus, who barks as he pushes them further into the courtroom.

Umbridge is on her feet instantly, expression disgruntled. “What in the—”

“The prisoners have escaped!” Someone yells from the hallway.

And then it’s madness, the entire audience a cacophony of chaos as everyone tries to make out what’s happening.

Harry vaults himself over the divider between the audience and the woman on trial as several dementors near her and begin to converge; when he casts the patronus charm, light radiates throughout the entire chamber.

Umbridge’s eyes blaze with rage as she recognizes the stag, its image burned into her memory from when she’d been so infuriated by its appearance during OWLs not two years prior.

“Harry Potter!” she shrieks, face going red, fists clenched as she raises her wand. “You—”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione calls, tearing off the cloak. “Hello, Dolores. How horrible to see you again.”

The older woman’s lip curls with disgust, pointing her weapon at Hermione instead. “You—you filthy mudblood, how dare you speak to your betters—"

Hermione nonverbally disarms her and casts a leg-lock curse in quick succession.

Umbridge finally realizes the danger before her, then—finally realizes the woman wielding a wand against her is a powerful witch.

(Powerful, and pissed off.)

“You know, I am close to many people in power—it’s in your best interests to let me up, before the Dark Lord himself—”

“_Silencio._”

Hermione takes a deep breath as she decides what to do, narrowing her eyes at her former teacher. “You were our teacher—supposed to protect us, and you tortured my brother. I let you live, then.”

The other woman’s eyes widen, and her own lips curl upward.

(This vindictive rage, the satisfaction of someone whose caused so much harm being at her mercy—she’s felt it so rarely before.)

(Not this strongly since it was Roger at the other end of her wand.)

“I let you live,” she repeats, in a whisper only the two of them can hear, “and you continued to strip away the rights of the afflicted and marginalized. To use your position of power to demonize and dehumanize a group of people just because they’re different than you, to begin the kind of persecution that leads to annihilation and genocide—”

She lets out a bitter laugh, holding her wand steady. “I don’t believe anyone has the right to decide whether another human being deserves to live or die. But this is war, and you’ve already taken more lives than I can count. I won’t allow you to hurt anyone else.”

(_Won’t bring my half-blood child into a world where you still breathe, where Sofia and every other child that’s not pureblood has to worry for their safety, people like you persecuting and murdering them for the crime of existing.)_

“_Avada kedavra,”_ she says, for the first time.

She doesn’t hesitate—the spell strikes true.

There was a time she would’ve flinched at the sound of the corpse hitting the floor with a thud—a time when the guilt would’ve eaten her alive, even if Umbridge deserved it.

Not anymore.

(Her non-dominant hand cradles her baby—it’s for them she will throw aside notions of maintaining her soul.)

(That doesn’t matter anymore—there’s nothing but defeating the darkness, winning the war. Creating a world where her baby will be safe.)

There’s screaming, as others realize what’s happened, and shoves the cloak into her bag before sprinting toward the exit.

She races out the hall, into the Ministry lobby with guards and workers and god knows who else hot on her heels.

Harry and Ron are already hurriedly ushering the freed muggleborns into fireplaces, burning away copious quantities of floo powder.

They’re all disillusioned, so they’re hard to hit with the hexes others keep firing in their general direction.

Suddenly the onslaught of spells stops—and Hermione looks up just as Harry does to see Cedric having thrown himself between them and everyone else, holding his wand out and maintaining a shield charm from floor to ceiling.

(His cover—blown, for them, and everyone they’d broken free.)

“Go! I’ll hold them off, but you have to go! Now!”

Hermione hurries towards the boys, gets close enough to hear Ron reminding everyone they have to run, to cast muffliato before saying they’re desired location so no one can follow them.

The last of them get through, and it’s just as the trio is about to lurch into the fireplace themselves that Cedric’s shield is broken.

Harry begins toward him, worried, but Ron grabs the back of his shirt. “Harry, we can’t—he’ll be safer if we’re gone before the Polyjuice wears off, you know he will!”

Metal grates slam down in front of the fireplaces in a deafening clank, the crowd rapidly approaching.

“Fuck,” Hermione mutters through her teeth.

“What do we do?” Harry panics. “God, okay, we can figure this out, we can—”

Ron clamps a hand over his mouth. “Harry, I love you, you have to shut up so Hermione can think—she’s our best bet at getting out of here.”

“Just please, stay quiet, both of you, so I can think!” Hermione holds her wand to the mouth of her beaded bag, whispering _“accio jeans!”_

Harry tugs at his hair. “Is now _really the time?!”_

“Shut up!” Hermione demands, whipping off the invisibility cloak. “Both of you grab on!”

There’s chaos around them, as Hermione’s recognized—as others start to notice the fading of Harry and Ron’s Polyjuice.

Several officials race toward them, and the minister’s shrill screeching is audible from nearby.

Harry and Ron both reach for the fabric without waiting for an explanation, despite being seconds away from arrest.

She feels hands grasp onto her shoulders—as she waves her wand, manages to see Yaxley tightly gripping at her cloak—

And then there’s the awful churning, his hands fading away as they’re taken away, gripping onto the old pair of jeans for dear life.

All three of them are disoriented, when they land; dizzy and out of it.

It’s safe to portkey while pregnant, but even still, Hermione mentally sends apologies to her little one; catches herself passing a hand back and forth over the bump where her little nugget grows.

(Narcissa’s protection spell is flawless, so she knows the bean is okay, but can’t help the irrational worry nonetheless.)

“What—” Harry halts mid-sentence, lurching to the side to vomit.

Rob pats him on the back, looking a bit squeamish himself. His expression is incredulous as he turns to Hermione. “Where the hell did you get a portkey?”

“I—” she takes a deep breath, shakily sitting down as lightheadedness overtakes her. “I made it.”

Harry sends a thumbs up, but it’s Ron whose eyes go even wider, shocked beyond belief. “You’ve got to be kidding me—Mione, that is—some of the most advanced magic there is! You _made _a fucking _portkey_?” He opens and closes his mouth.

It’s then Harry registers that they’re at Grimmauld Place, and his eyebrows draw together. “I thought you didn’t want to come here and risk the security—and when we were leaving I could’ve sworn Yaxley had hold of you, how did he not—”

Hermione sighs, reaching to fix the mess of her hair. “He did, but you have to be physically touching the portkey itself for it to transport you—that’s why I made it in the first place, as a failsafe. As for the security…well, I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

Before the boys can say anything else in reply, the whooshing of the fireplace roars in the other room, and she shakily grips her wand as they do the same, all three of them bracing to fight off whoever it is—

And then Sirius and Remus are there, wands at the ready in defensive positions till they spot the three of them.

It’s Harry who remains vigilant—remembers himself enough to keep all of them safe.

“What show did we binge watch the first summer I lived with you?”

Remus lowers his own wand, expression going soft. “Full House.”

“I made fun because it was American and boring,” Sirius adds.

Harry relaxes, turning his torso towards Ron and Hermione. “It’s them.”

“Oh, good,” Hermione says, even as she feels a rush in her head, limbs growing weak. “Harry?”

His eyes are on her in an instant. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Black spots blink in and out of her vision. “My sugar, and the adrenaline, and—I think I might pass out.”

As soon as the words pass her lips she goes limp, Harry and Ron both lurching forward to catch her before she hits the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from oh god by mothica
> 
> sorry for the wait, friends—this chapter has been seriously eluding me. The next will come within the week!!
> 
> I’m working on an evermore inspired jily one shot, so keep an eye out if that’s your cup of tea
> 
> all my love


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